mmm 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


S/nl'fv 


>■  C?/^  - 


QtXfo/f^/f/t 


ENGLISH  MEN   OF   LETTERS 

SHAKESPEARE 


'*&&& 


ENGLISH   MEN   OF   LETTERS 


SHAKESPEARE 


BY 


WALTER     RALEIGH 

FELLOW   OF   MAGDALEN   COLLEGE,    AND   PROFESSOR   OF 
ENGLISH   LITERATURE   IN   THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1907 

All  rights  reserved 


COPTBIOHT,  1907, 

By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  April,  1907. 


Norbjoob  $«&b 

J.  8.  Cashing  &  Co.  — Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   I 

PAGE 

Shakespeare 1 


CHAPTER  II 
Stratford  and  London 29 

CHAPTER  III 
Books  and  Poetry 63 

CHAPTER  IV 
The  Theatre 94 

CHAPTER  V 
Story  and  Character 128 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Last  Phase 209 

Index 229 


V 


73900 


SHAKESPEAEE 

CHAPTER   I 

SHAKESPEARE 

Evert  age  has  its  own  difficulties  in  the  appreciation 
of  Shakespeare.  The  age  in  which  he  lived  was  too 
near  to  him  to  see  him  truly.  From  his  contem- 
poraries, and  those  rare  and  curious  inquirers  who 
collected  the  remnants  of  their  talk,  we  learn  that 
"  his  Plays  took  well " ;  and  that  he  was  "  a  handsome, 
well  shaped  man ;  very  good  company,  and  of  a  very 
ready  and  pleasant  smooth  wit."  The  easy-going  and 
casual  critics  who  were  privileged  to  know  him  in  life 
regarded  him  chiefly  as  a  successful  member  of  his 
own  class,  a  prosperous  actor-dramatist,  whose  energy 
and  skill  were  given  to  the  business  of  the  theatre  and 
the  amusement  of  the  play -going  public.  There  was  no 
one  to  make  an  idol  of  him  while  he  lived.  The  newly 
sprung  class  to  which  he  belonged  was  despised  and 
disliked  by  the  majority  of  the  decent  burgesses  of 
the  City  of  London ;  and  though  the  players  found 
substantial  favour  at  the  hands  of  the  Court,  and 
were  applauded  and  imitated  by  a  large  following  of 
young  law-students  and  fashionable  gallants,  yet  this 
favour  and  support  brought  them  none  the  nearer  to 
social  consideration  or  worshipful  esteem.  In  the  City 
they  were  enemies,  "  the  caterpillars  of  a  common- 
wealth "  ;  at  the  Court  they  were  servants,  and  service 
is  no  heritage.     It  was  not   until   the  appearance  of 

B  1 


2  SHAKESPEARE      .  [chap. 

the  Folio  Edition  of  1623,  that  Shakespeare's  dramatic 
writings  challenged  the  serious  attention  of  "  the  great 
variety  of  readers."  From  that  time  onward,  his  fame 
steadily  advanced  to  the  conquest  of  the  world.  Ben 
Jonson  in  his  verses  prefixed  to  the  Folio,  though  he 
makes  the  largest  claims  for  his  friend,  yet  invokes 
him  first  of  all  as  the  "  Soul  of  the  Age,  the  applause, 
delight,  the  wonder  of  our  Stage."  Milton,  some  nine 
years  later,  considers  him  simply  as  the  author  of  a 
marvellous  book.  The  readers  of  Shakespeare  took 
over  from  the  fickle  players  the  trust  and  inheritance 
of  his  fame.  An  early  example  of  purely  literary 
imitation,  by  a  close  student  of  his  works,  may  be 
seen  in  Sir  John  Suckling's  plays,  which  are  fuller 
of  poetic  than  of  dramatic  reminiscence.  While  the 
Restoration  theatre  mangled  and  parodied  the  tragic 
masterpieces,  a  new  generation  of  readers  kept  alive 
the  knowledge  and  heightened  the  renown  of  the 
written  word.  Then  followed  two  centuries  of  enor- 
mous study ;  editions,  annotations,  treatises,  huddled 
one  upon  another's  neck,  until,  in  our  own  day,  the 
plays  have  become  the  very  standard  and  measure  of 
poetry  among  all  English-speaking  peoples. 

So  Shakespeare  has  come  to  his  own,  as  an  English 
man  of  letters ;  he  has  been  separated  from  his  fellows, 
and  recognised  for  what  he  is :  perhaps  the  greatest 
poet  of  all  time ;  one  who  has  said  more  about  hu- 
manity than  any  other  writer,  and  has  said  it  better ; 
whose  works  are  the  study  and  admiration  of  divines 
and  philosophers,  of  soldiers  and  statesmen,  so  that 
his  continued  vogue  upon  the  stage  is  the  smallest 
part  of  his  immortality  ;  who  has  touched  many  spirits 
finely  to  fine  issues,  and  has  been  for  three  centuries 
a  source  of  delight  and  understanding,  of  wisdom  and 
consolation. 


I.]  SHAKESPEARE  3 

The  mistakes  which  beset  our  modern  criticism  of 
Shakespeare  are  not  likely  to  be  the  mistakes  of  care- 
lessness and  undervaluation.  We  can  hardly  even  join 
in  Ben  Jonson's  confession,  and  say  that  we  honour 
his  memory  "  on  this  side  idolatry."  We  are  idolaters 
of  Shakespeare,  born  and  bred.  Our  sin  is  not  in- 
difference, but  superstition  —  which  is  another  kind  of 
ignorance.  In  all  the  realms  of  political  democracy 
there  is  no  equality  like  that  which  a  poet  exacts  from  his 
readers.  He  seeks  for  no  convertites  nor  worshippers, 
but  records  his  ideas  and  impressions  of  life  and  society 
in  order  that  the  reader  may  compare  them  with  his 
own.  If  the  impressions  tally,  sympathy  is  born.  If 
not,  the  courteous  reader  will  yet  find  matter  for 
thought.  The  indispensable  preliminary  for  judging 
and  enjoying  Shakespeare  is  not  knowledge  of  his  his- 
tory, not  even  knowledge  of  his  works,  but  knowledge 
of  his  theme,  a  wide  acquaintance  with  human  life  and 
human  passion  as  they  are  reflected  in  a  sensitive  and 
independent  mind.  The  poets,  and  but  few  others, 
have  approached  him  from  the  right  point  of  view, 
with  the  requisite  ease  and  sincerity.  There  is  no 
writer  who  has  been  so  laden  with  the  impertinences 
of  prosaic  enthusiasm  and  learned  triviality.  There  is 
no  book,  except  the  Bible,  which  has  been  so  misread, 
so  misapplied,  or  made  the  subject  of  so  many  idle 
paradoxes  and  ingenuities.  The  most  careless  and 
casual  lines  in  his  plays  have  been  twisted  and  squeezed 
in  the  hope  that  they  will  yield  some  medicinal  secret. 
His  poetry  has  been  cut  into  minute  indigestible  frag- 
ments, and  used  like  wedding-cake,  not  to  eat,  but  to 
dream  upon.  The  greatest  poet  of  the  modern  world 
is  at  this  day  widely  believed  to  have  been  also  the 
most  irrelevant,  and  to  have  valued  the  golden  casket 
of  his  verse  chiefly  as  a  hiding-place   for   the   odds 


4  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

and  ends  of  personal  gossip.  These  are  the  penalties 
to  be  paid  by  great  poets  when  their  works  become 
fashionable. 

Even  wiser  students  of  poetry  have  found  it  hard 
to  keep  their  balance.  Since  the  rise  of  Romantic 
criticism,  the  appreciation  of  Shakespeare  has  become 
a  kind  of  auction,  where  the  highest  bidder,  however 
extravagant,  carries  off  the  prize.  To  love  and  to 
be  wise  is  not  given  to  man ;  the  poets  themselves 
have  run  to  wild  extremes  in  their  anxiety  to  find 
all  Shakespeare  in  every  part  of  him ;  so  that  it 
has  come  to  be  almost  a  mark  of  insensibility  to 
consider  his  work  rationally  and  historically  as  a 
whole.  Infinite  subtlety  of  purpose  has  been  attri- 
buted to  him  in  cases  where  he  accepted  a  story  as 
he  found  it,  or  half  contemptuously  threw  in  a  few 
characters  and  speeches  to  suit  the  requirements  of 
his  Elizabethan  audience.  Coleridge,  for  example, 
finds  it  "  a  strong  instance  of  the  fineness  of  Shake- 
speare's insight  into  the  nature  of  the  passions,  that 
Romeo  is  introduced  already  love-bewildered,"  doting 
on  Rosaline.  Yet  the  whole  story  of  Romeo's  passion 
for  Rosaline  is  set  forth  in  Arthur  Brooke's  poem, 
from  which  Shakespeare  certainly  drew  the  matter 
of  his  play.  Again,  the  same  great  critic  asserts  that 
"the  low  soliloquy  of  the  Porter"  in  Macbeth,  was 
"  written  for  the  mob  by  some  other  hand,  perhaps 
with  Shakespeare's  consent " ;  and  that  "  finding  it 
take,  he  with  the  remaining  ink  of  a  pen  otherwise 
employed,  just  interpolated  the  words — 'I'll  devil- 
porter  it  no  further  :  I  had  thought  to  have  let  in  some 
of  all  professions,  that  go  the  primrose  way  to  the 
everlasting  bonfire.'  Of  the  rest  not  one  syllable 
has  the  ever-present  being  of  Shakespeare."  That  is 
to  say,  Coleridge  does  not  like  the  Porter's  speech, 


i.]  SHAKESPEARE  5 

so  he  denies  it  to  Shakespeare.  But  one  sentence  in 
it  is  too  good  to  lose,  so  Shakespeare  must  be  at  hand 
to  write  it.  This  is  the  very  ecstasy  of  criticism,  and 
sends  us  back  to  the  cool  and  manly  utterances  of 
Dryden,  Johnson,  and  Pope  with  a  heightened  sense 
of  the  value  of  moderation  and  candour. 

There  is  something  noble  and  true,  after  all,  in 
these  excesses  of  religious  zeal.  To  judge  Shakespeare 
it  is  necessary  to  include  his  thought  in  ours,  and 
the  mind  instinctively  recoils  from  the  audacity  of 
the  attempt.  On  his  characters  we  pass  judgment 
freely;  as  we  grow  familiar  with  them,  we  seem  to 
belong  to  their  world,  and  to  be  ourselves  the  pawns, 
if  not  the  creatures,  of  Shakespeare's  genius.  We 
are  well  content  to  share  in  this  dream-life,  which  is 
so  marvellously  vital,  so  like  the  real  world  as  we 
know  it;  and  we  are  unwilling  to  be  awakened. 
How  should  the  dream  judge  the  dreamer?  By 
what  insolent  device  can  we  raise  ourselves  to  a 
point  outside  the  orbed  continent  of  Shakespeare's 
life-giving  imagination  ?  How  shall  we  speak  of  his 
character,  when  the  very  traits  of  that  character  are 
themselves  men  and  women  ?  Almost  all  the  Komantic 
critics  have  felt  the  difficulty;  most  of  them  have 
refused  to  face  it,  preferring  to  plunge  themselves 
deeper  under  the  spell  of  the  enchantment,  and  to 
hug  the  dream.  They  have  busied  themselves  ar- 
dently and  curiously  with  Shakespeare's  creatures, 
and  have  satisfied  their  feelings  towards  the  creator 
by  raising  to  him,  from  time  to  time,  an  impassioned 
hymn  of  praise. 

Yet  Shakespeare  was  a  man,  and  a  writer :  there 
was  no  escape  for  him ;  when  he  wrote,  it  was  him- 
self that  he  related  to  paper,  his  own  mind  that  he 
revealed.     Some  men  write  so  ill  that  their  true  selves 


C  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

are  almost  completely  concealed  beneath  their  ragged 
and  incompetent  speech.  May  it  be  said  that  others 
write  so  well,  with  so  large  and  firm  a  grasp  of  men 
and  things,  that  they  pass  beyOnd  our  ken  on  the 
other  side  ?  In  one  sense,  perhaps,  it  may.  There 
is  much  that  we  do  not  know  about  Shakespeare, 
and  it  includes  almost  all  that  in  our  daily  traffic  with 
our  fellows  we  judge  to  be  significant,  characteristic, 
illuminative.  We  know  so  little  one  of  another,  that 
we  are  thankful  for  the  doubtful  information  given 
by  thumb-marks  and  finger-prints,  tricks  of  gesture, 
and  accidental  flaws  in  the  clay.  It  is  often  by  our 
littlenesses  that  we  are  most  familiarly  known;  and 
here  our  knowledge  of  Shakespeare  fails  us.  What 
we  do  know  of  him  is  so  essential  that  it  seems  im- 
personal. All  this  detective  machinery  he  has  made 
of  no  account  by  opening  his  mind  and  heart  to  us. 
If  we  desire  to  know  how  he  wore  his  hat,  or  what 
were  his  idiosyncrasies  of  speech,  it  is  chiefly  because 
we  feel  that  these  things  might  be  of  value  as  signs 
and  indications.  But  a  lifetime  of  such  observations 
and  inferences  could  not  tell  us  one-tenth  part  of 
what  he  has  himself  revealed  to  us  by  the  more  potent 
and  expressive  way  of  language.  If  we  knew  his 
littlenesses  we  should  be  none  the  wiser  :  they  would 
lie  to  us,  and  dwarf  him.  He  has  freed  us  from  the 
deceits  of  these  makeshifts ;  and  those  who  feel  that 
their  knowledge  of  Shakespeare  must  needs  depend 
chiefly  on  the  salvage  of  broken  facts  and  details,  are 
his  flunkeys,  not  his  friends.  "  Did  these  bones  cost 
no  more  the  breeding  but  to  play  at  loggats  with  'em  ?  " 
It  would  be  pleasant,  no  doubt,  to  unbend  the  mind 
in  Shakespeare's  company;  to  exchange  the  white- 
heat  of  the  smithy  for  the  lazy  ease  of  the  village- 
green;   to   see  him  put  off  his  magic  garment,  and 


i.]  SHAKESPEARE  7 

fall  back  into  the  dear  inanities  of  ordinary  idle  con- 
versation. This  pleasure  is  denied  to  us.  But  to 
know  him  as  the  greatest  of  artisans,  when  he  collects 
his  might  and  stands  dilated,  his  imagination  aflame, 
the  thick-coming  thoughts  and  fancies  shaping  them- 
selves, under  the  stress  of  the  central  will,  into  a  thing 
of  life  —  this  is  to  know  him  better,  not  worse.  The 
rapid,  alert  reading  of  one  of  the  great  plays  brings  us 
nearer  to  the  heart  of  Shakespeare  than  all  the  faith- 
ful and  laudable  business  of  the  antiquary  and  the 
commentator. 

But  here  we  are  met  by  an  objection  which  is  strong 
in  popular  favour  and  has  received  some  measure  of 
scholarly  support.  It  is  denied  that  we  can  find  the 
man  Shakespeare  in  his  pla}-s.  He  is  a  dramatic  poet ; 
and  poetry,  the  clown  says,  is  feigning.  His  enor- 
mously rich  creative  faculty  has  given  us  a  long  pro- 
cession of  fictitious  persons  who  are  as  real  to  us  as 
our  neighbours  ;  a  large  assembly,  including  the  most 
diverse  characters  —  Hamlet  and  Falstaff,  Othello  and 
Thersites,  Imogen  and  Mrs.  Quickly,  Dogberry  and 
Julius  Caesai*,  Cleopatra  and  Audrey  —  and  in  this 
crowd  the  dramatist  conceals  himself,  and  escapes. 
We  cannot  make  him  answerable  for  anything  that  he 
says.  He  is  the  fellow  in  the  cellarage,  who  urges  on 
the  action  of  the  play,  but  is  himself  invisible. 

It  is  a  plausible  objection,  and  a  notable  tribute  to 
Shakespeare's  success  in  producing  the  illusions  which 
are  the  machinery  of  his  art.  But  it  would  never  be 
entertained  by  an  artist,  and  would  have  had  short 
shrift  from  any  of  the  company  that  assembled  at  the 
Mermaid  Tavern.  No  man  can  walk  abroad  save  on 
his  own  shadow.  No  dramatist  can  create  live  char- 
acters save  by  bequeathing  the  best  of  himself  to  the 
children  of  his  art,  scattering  among  them  a  largess 


8  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

of  his  own  qualities,  giving,  it  may  be,  to  one  his  wit, 
to  another  his  philosophic  doubt,  to  another  his  love 
of  action,  to  another  the  simplicity  and  constancy  that 
he  finds  deep  in  his  own  nature.     There  is  no  thrill  of 
feeling  communicated  from  the  printed  page  but  has 
first  been  alive  in  the  mind  of  the  author ;  there  was 
nothing  alive  in  his  mind  that  was  not  intensely  and 
sincerely  felt.     Plays  like  those  of  Shakespeare  cannot 
be  written  in  cold  blood ;  they  call  forth  the  man's 
whole  energies,  and  take  toll  of  the  last  farthing  of 
his  wealth  of  sympathy  and  experience.     In  the  plays 
we  may  learn  what  are   the  questions  that  interest 
Shakespeare  most  profoundly  and  recur  to  his  mind 
with  most  insistence;   we  may  note  bow  he  handles 
his  story,  what  he  rejects,  and  what  he  alters,  chang- 
ing its  purport  and  fashion ;  how  many  points  he  is 
content  to  leave  dark;    what  matters   he  chooses  to 
decorate  with  the  highest  resources  of  his  romantic  art, 
and  what  he  gives  over  to  be  the  sport  of  triumphant 
ridicule ;    how  in  every  type  of  character  he  empha- 
sises what  most  appeals  to  his  instinct  and  imagination, 
so  that  we  see  the  meaning  of  character  more  plainly 
than  it  is  to  be  seen  in  life.    We  share  in  the  emotions 
that   are   aroused   in  him   by  certain   situations  and 
events;  we  are  made  to  respond  to  the  strange  im- 
aginative appeal  of   certain   others;  we  know,  more 
clearly  than  if  we  had  heard  it  uttered,  the  verdict 
that  he  passes  on  certain  characters  and  certain  kinds 
of  conduct.     He  has  made  us  acquainted  with  all  that 
he  sees  and  all  that  he  feels,  he  has  spread  out  before 
us  the  scroll  that  contains  his  interpretation  of  the 
world ;  —  how  dare  we  complain  that  he  has  hidden 
himself  from  our  knowledge  ? 

The  main  cause  of  these  difficulties  is  a  misconception 
of  the  nature  of  poetry,  and  of  the  workings  of  a  poet's 


i.]  SHAKESPEARE  9 

mind.  Among  readers  of  poetry  there  are  men  and 
women  not  a  few  who  challenge  a  poet  to  deliver  a 
short  statement  of  his  doctrine  and  creed.  To  positive 
and  rigid  natures  the  roundness  of  the  world  is  be- 
wildering ;  they  must  needs  have  a  four-square  scheme 
of  things,  mapped  out  in  black  and  white ;  and  when 
they  meet  with  anything  that  does  not  fit  into  their 
scheme,  they  do  not  "  as  a  stranger  give  it  welcome  " ; 
they  either  ignore  it,  or  treat  it  as  a  monster.  They 
are  perfectly  at  ease  with  general  maxims  and  prin- 
ciples, which  are  simple  only  because  they  are  partly 
false.  What  does  not  admit  of  this  kind  of  statement 
they  incline  to  treat  as  immoral,  not  without  some 
sense  of  personal  indignity.  They  ask  a  poet  what  he 
believes,  and  the  answer  does  not  satisfy  them.  A 
poet  believes  nothing  but  what  he  sees.  The  power  of 
his  utterance  springs  from  this,  that  all  his  statements 
carry  with  them  the  immediate  warrant  of  experience. 
Where  dull  minds  rest  on  proverbs  and  apply  them,  he 
reverses  the  process  ;  his  brilliant  general  statements 
of  truth  are  sudden  divinations  born  of  experience, 
sparks  thrown  out  into  the  darkness  from  the  luminous 
centre  of  his  own  self-knowledge.  Dramatic  genius, 
which  is  sometimes  treated  as  though  it  could  dispense 
with  experience,  is  in  truth  a  capacity  for  experience, 
and  for  widening  and  applying  experience  by  intelli- 
gence and  sympathy.  When  we  find  a  poet  speaking 
confidently  of  matters  that  seem  to  lie  wholly  outside 
the  possible  limits  of  his  own  immediate  knowledge, 
we  are  tempted  to  credit  him  with  magic  powers.  We 
are  deceived;  we  forget  the  profusion  of  impressions 
that  are  poured  in  upon  us,  every  day  and  every  hour, 
through  the  channels  of  the  senses,  so  that  the  quickest 
mind  cannot  grasp  or  realise  a  hundredth  part  of  them. 
A  story  has  often  been  told  of  an  ignorant  servant-girl, 


10  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

who  in  the  delirium  of  fever  recited  long  screeds  of 
Hebrew,  which  she  had  learned,  all  unconsciously,  from 
overhearing  the  mutterings  of  the  Hebrew  scholar  who 
was  her  master.  The  fine  frenzy  of  a  poet's  brain  gives 
to  it  something  of  the  same  abnormal  quickness  of  ap- 
prehension and  memory.  When  the  mind  is  stirred 
by  passion,  or  heated  by  the  fire  of  imagination,  all 
kinds  of  trivial  and  forgotten  things  rise  to  the  surface 
and  take  on  a  new  significance. 

Try  as  we  may,  we  can  never  find  Shakespeare 
talking  in  vague  and  general  terms  of  that  which  lay 
beyond  his  ken.  He  testifies  of  what  he  knows.  But 
if  we  attempt  to  argue  backwards  and  to  recreate  his 
personal  history  from  a  study  of  his  cosmic  wisdom, 
we  fall  into  a  trap.  There  are  so  many  ways  of  learn- 
ing a  thing;  and  so  many  of  the  most  important  les- 
sons are  repeated  daily.  Take  any  random  example 
of  Shakespeare's  lore : 

How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  ill  deeds 
Make  deeds  ill  done. 

Or,  again: 

O  Opportunity,  thy  guilt  is  great ; 
'Tis  thou  that  execut'st  the  traitor's  treason  ; 
Thou  set'st  the  wolf  where  he  the  lamb  may  get ; 
Whoever  plots  the  sin,  thou  point'st  the  season. 

It  is  reasonable  to  think  that  there  were  events  and 
moments  in  Shakespeare's  life  which  brought  this 
truth  home  to  him.  But  who  can  guess  what  they 
were  ?  The  truth  itself  is  proved  and  known  by  every 
infant.  A  similar  insecurity  attaches  to  almost  all 
inferences  made  from  Shakespeare's  writings  to  the 
events  of  his  life.  He  speaks  with  unmistakably  deep 
feeling  of  the  faithlessness  of  friends,  of  inequality  in 


I.]  SHAKESPEARE  11 

the  marriage-bond,  of  lightness  in  woman,  and  of  lust 
in  man.  Phantom  events  have  been  fitted  to  all  these 
utterances  ;  and  indeed  many  of  them  do  irresistibly 
suggest  a  background  of  bitter  personal  reminiscence. 
But  the  generative  moments  between  experience  and 
his  soul  have  passed  beyond  recovery,  as  they  were 
doubtless  many  of  them  lost  to  his  own  remembrance 
long  before  he  died.  What  remains  is  the  child  of  his 
passion ;  and  that  child  is  immortal. 

There  is  a  description  in  Johnson's  account  of  his 
friend  Savage  which  might  be  more  extensively  ap- 
plied to  the  workings  of  poetic,  and  particularly  of 
dramatic,  genius.  "  His  mind,"  says  Johnson,  "  was 
in  an  uncommon  degree  vigorous  and  active.  His 
judgment  was  accurate,  his  apprehension  quick,  and  his 
memory  so  tenacious,  that  he  was  frequently  observed 
to  know  what  he  had  learned  from  others,  in  a  short 
time,  better  than  those  by  whom  he  was  informed ; 
and  could  frequently  recollect  incidents,  with  all  their 
combination  of  circumstances,  which  few  would  have 
regarded  at  the  present  time,  but  which  the  quickness 
of  his  apprehension  impressed  upon  him.  He  had  the 
art  of  escaping  from  his  own  reflections,  and  accommo- 
dating himself  to  every  new  scene.  To  this  quality  is 
to  be  imputed  the  extent  of  his  knowledge,  compared 
with  the  small  time  which  he  spent  in  visible  en- 
deavours to  acquire  it.  He  mingled  in  cursory  conver- 
sation with  the  same  steadiness  of  attention  as  others 
apply  to  a  lecture;  and  amidst  the  appearance  of 
thoughtless  gaiety  lost  no  new  idea  that  was  started, 
nor  any  hint  that  could  be  improved.  He  had  there- 
fore made  in  coffee-houses  the  same  proficiency  as 
others  in  their  closets ;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  the 
writings  of  a  man  of  little  education  and  little  read- 
ing have  an  air  of  learning  scarcely  to  be  found  in 


12  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

any  other  performances."  Reinstate  the  Elizabethan 
taverns  in  place  of  the  coffee-houses,  and  every  word 
of  this  description  is  probably  true  of  Shakespeare. 
If  we  may  infer  anything  from  his  writings,  we 
may  be  sure  of  this,  that  he  had  the  art  of  giving 
himself  wholly  to  his  company,  and  accommodating 
himself  to  every  new  scene.  This  is  a  strong  personal 
trait  in  him,  though  it  does  not  help  us  to  picture 
him  as  what  is  usually  called  a  character.  He  pre- 
sents none  of  those  angles  and  whimsicalities  which 
lend  themselves  to  caricature.  Those  of  his  contem- 
poraries who  tried  to  parody  his  style  generally 
fastened  on  the  high  strain  of  rhetoric  which  he 
assigns  to  such  a  character  as  Hotspur  — 

By  Heaven,  methinks  it  were  an  easy  leap, 

To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-fac'd  moon. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  Shakespeare  had  a  great  love 
of  sumptuous  rhetoric;  he  had  also  a  very  happy, 
humorous  knack  of  contrasting  it  with  reality.  Here, 
as  elsewhere,  he  is  found  on  both  sides.  Sometimes  he 
seems  to  be  caught  in  the  business  and  desire  of  the 
world,  and  to  be  inviting  us  to  commit  ourselves  to 
a  party.  But  he  is  not  to  be  trusted;  he  will  rise 
to  his  heights  again,  and  look  out  on  the  battle  from 
the  mount  of  humour  and  contemplation.  Some  of 
the  most  living  characters  in  his  plays  are  those  who 
prefer  thus  to  look  on  life  —  Biron,  Falstaff,  Hamlet, 
Prospero.  They  have  all,  in  one  sense  or  another, 
failed  at  practical  business ;  but  the  width  and  truth 
of  their  vision  is  never  impaired,  and  they  are  dear  to 
Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare,  then,  was  not  a  character  in  the  narrow 
sense  of  that  word,  or  in  any  sense  which  may  be 
readily  grasped  by  minds  accustomed  to  shorthand 


I.]  SHAKESPEARE  13 

expressions  and  ridiculous  simplifications  of  the  human 
problem.  The  study  of  him,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived, 
would  have  baffled  those  lovers  of  character  who  drew 
Sir  Koger  de  Coverley,  Parson  Adams,  and  Colonel 
Newcome.  Nevertheless,  as  we  grow  familiar  with 
his  work,  we  are  overwhelmed  by  the  sense  that  we 
are  in  the  presence  of  a  living  man.  When  we  read 
his  comedies,  we  catch  the  infection  of  mirth  that 
we  know  to  be  his.  As  we  draw  near  to  the  awful 
close  of  King  Lear  or  of  Othello,  and  feel  the  fibres 
of  our  being  almost  torn  asunder,  the  comfort  that 
comes  to  us  when  quiet  falls  on  the  desolate  scene 
is  the  comfort  of  the  sure  knowledge  that  Shake- 
speare is  with  us;  that  he  who  saw  these  things, 
felt  them  as  we  do,  and  found  in  the  splendours 
of  courage  and  love  a  remedy  for  despair.  "When  he 
states  both  sides  of  a  question,  and  seems  to  leave  the 
balance  wavering,  he  is  still  expressing  his  own  mind, 
even  by  refusing  the  choice.  Or,  it  may  be,  our 
understanding  is  too  dull,  and  he  counted  on  us  rashly 
in  leaving  so  much  to  our  sympathy  and  intuition. 
But  everywhere,  even  where  we  follow  with  uncertain 
steps,  we  feel  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  are  aware 
that  all  the  knowledge  that  we  gather  by  the  way  is 
knowledge  of  him,  authorised  and  communicated  by 
himself. 

What  we  learn  from  the  poor  remainder  of  contem- 
porary judgments  is  in  perfect  agreement,  so  far  as  it 
goes,  with  what  the  plays  tell  us.  The  epithets  that 
are  applied  to  Shakespeare  and  his  work  show  a  strong 
family  likeness;  he  is  called  "ingenious,"  "mellifluous," 
"  silver-tongued";  his  industry  is  "  happy  and  copious" ; 
he  was  "  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature  "  ;  and 
always  he  is  "  the  gentle  Shakespeare."  If  we  could 
make  his  living  acquaintance,  we  should  expect  to  find 


14  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

in  him  one  of  those  well-balanced  and  plastic  tempers 
which  enable  men  to  attract  something  less  than  their 
due  share  of  observation  and  remark  as  they  pass  to 
and  fro  among  their  fellows.  Children,  we  feel  sure, 
did  not  stop  their  talk  when  he  came  near  them,  but 
continued,  in  the  happy  assurance  that  it  was  only 
Master  Shakespeare.  The  tradition  of  geniality  clings 
to  his  name  like  a  faded  perfume.  Every  one  was  more 
himself  for  being  in  the  company  of  Shakespeare. 
This  is  not  speculation,  but  truth  :  without  such  a  gift 
he  conld  not  have  come  by  his  knowledge  of  mankind. 
Those  lofty  and  severe  tempers  who,  often  to  their 
own  shame,  make  others  feel  abashed  and  shy,  could 
by  no  possibility,  even  if  they  were  dramatically 
minded,  collect  the  materials  of  Shakespeare's  drama. 
If,  by  a  miracle,  they  could  come  up  with  the 
women  and  children,  the  rogues  and  vagabonds  would 
evade  them.  Cordelia,  because  she  was  pitiful  and 
generous,  they  might  propitiate;  but  by  no  cunning 
could  they  come  within  earshot  of  the  soliloquy  of 
Autolycus.  There  is  a  kind  of  ingrained  humility  and 
lovableness  in  the  character  of  those  who  are  not 
righteous  overmuch ;  even  a  saint  may  miss  it  in  the 
very  act  of  taking  pains ;  but  it  was  a  part  of  the 
native  endowment  of  Shakespeare,  and  a  chief  means 
of  his  proficiency  in  his  craft. 

It  need  not  be  said  that  Shakespeare  was  a  whole- 
hearted lover  of  pleasure,  in  himself  and  in  others. 
His  enormous  zest  in  life  makes  his  earlier  comedies 
a  paradise  of  delight.  The  love  of  pleasure,  if  it  be 
generous,  and  sensitive,  and  quick  to  catch  reflections, 
is  hardly  distinguishable  from  wisdom  and  tact.  It 
has  no  respect  for  the  self-torturing  energies  of  a 
vengeful  and  brooding  mind,  or  for  those  bitter 
thoughts  which   spend  themselves   in  a  vain  agony 


r]  SHAKESPEARE  15 

upon  the  immutable  past.  Shakespeare's  villains  and 
evil  characters  are  all  self-absorbed  and  miserable  and 
retrospective.  They  belong  to  the  terrible  army  of 
cripples,  who  employ  the  best  skill  of  their  four  senses 
to  avenge  upon  others  the  loss  of  a  fifth.  Jealousy, 
born  of  deprivation,  is  a  passion  as  common  as  mud ; 
to  Shakespeare's  thinking  it  is  the  core  of  all  utter- 
most evil.  Deprivation  sweetly  taken,  with  no  thought 
of  doubling  the  pain  by  invoking  a  wicked  justice ; 
love  that  does  not  alter  when  it  finds  alteration,  but 
strengthens  itself  to  make  amends  for  the  defect  of 
others  —  these  are  the  materials  of  the  pinnacle  whereon 
he  raises  his  highest  examples  of  human  goodness. 
His  own  nature  sought  happiness  as  a  plant  turns  to 
the  light  and  air ;  he  pays  his  tribute  of  admiration 
to  all  who  achieve  happiness  by  ways  however  strange; 
and  his  cult  of  happiness  brought  him  his  ultimate 
reward  in  that  suffused  glow  of  light  reflected  from 
the  joy  of  a  younger  world,  which  illuminates  his 
latest  plays. 

If  we  find  Shakespeare's  character  difficult  to  under- 
stand, we  may  take  this  much  comfort,  that  here  too 
Shakespeare  is  with  us.  His  character  was  not  all  of 
a  piece,  neat  and  harmonious  and  symmetrical.  The 
tragic  conflicts  which  are  the  themes  of  his  greatest 
plays  were  projected  by  him  from  the  intestinal  war- 
fare and  insurrections  of  the  kingdom  of  his  mind. 
One  such  civil  strife  is  pre-eminent  among  the  rest, 
and  has  left  its  traces  deep  on  his  poetry.  It  is  not 
the  world-old  struggle  between  reason  and  affection, 
between  the  counsels  of  passion  and  the  cool  dictates 
of  prudence  ;  although  that  struggle  is  wonderfully 
illustrated  in  many  of  the  plays,  and  an  equal  justice  is 
done  to  both  parties.  But  the  central  drama  of  his 
mind  is  the  tragedy  of  the  life  of  imagination.     He 


16  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

was  a  lover  of  clear  decisive  action,  and  of  the  deed 
done.  He  knew  and  condemned  the  sentiment  which 
fondly  nurses  itself  and  is  without  issue.  Yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  gift  of  imagination  with  which  he  was 
so  richly  dowered,  the  wide,  restless,  curious  search- 
ings  of  the  intelligence  and  the  sympathies  —  these 
faculties,  strong  in  him  by  nature,  and  strengthened 
every  day  by  the  exercise  of  his  profession,  bade  fair 
at  times  to  take  sole  possession,  and  to  paralyse  the 
will.  Then  he  revolted  against  himself,  and  was  al- 
most inclined  to  bless  that  dark,  misfeatured  messen- 
ger called  the  angel  of  this  life,  "  whose  care  is  lest 
men  see  too  much  at  once."  If  for  the  outlook  of  a 
God  the  seer  must  neglect  the  opportunities  and  duties 
of  a  man,  may  not  the  price  paid  be  too  high  ?  It  is 
a  dilemma  known  to  all  poets,  —  to  all  men,  indeed, 
who  live  the  exhausting  life  of  the  imagination,  and 
grapple  hour  by  hour,  in  solitude  and  silence,  with  the 
creatures  of  their  mind,  while  the  passing  invitations 
of  humanity,  which  never  recur,  are  ignored  or  re- 
pelled. Keats  knew  the  position  well,  and  has  com- 
mented on  it,  though  not  tragically,  in  some  passages 
of  his  letters.  "  Men  of  Genius,"  he  says,  "  are  great 
as  certain  ethereal  Chemicals  operating  on  the  Mass  of 
neutral  intellect  —  but  they  have  not  any  individuality, 
any  determined  Character."  And  again :  "  A  poet  is 
the  most  unpoetical  of  anything  in  existence,  because  he 
has  no  Identity — he  is  continually  in  for  and  filling  some 
other  body."  Keats  also  recognised,  as  well  as  Shake- 
speare, that  man  cannot  escape  the  call  to  action,  and 
it  was  he  who  said  —  "I  am  convinced  more  and  more, 
every  day,  that  fine  writing  is,  next  to  fine  doing,  the 
top  thing  in  the  world."  But  what  if  this  highest  call 
come  suddenly,  as  it  always  does,  and  find  the  man 
unnerved  and  unready,  given  over  to  "  sensations  and 


i.]  SHAKESPEARE  17 

day-nightmares,"  absorbed  in  speculation,  out  of  him- 
self, and  unable  to  respond  ?  A  famous  English  painter 
was  once,  at  his  own  request,  bound  to  the  mast  during 
a  storm  at  sea,  in  order  that  he  might  study  the  pic- 
torial effects  of  sky  and  water.  His  help  was  not 
wanted  in  the  working  of  the  ship ;  he  was  not  one 
of  the  crew.  Who  among  men,  in  the  conduct  of  his 
own  life,  dare  claim  a  like  exemption  ? 

Shakespeare  certainly  made  no  such  claim  ;  but  he 
knew  the  anguish  of  the  divided  mind,  and  had 
suffered  from  the  tyranny  of  the  imagination.  It 
can  hardly  be  said  that  he  was  over-balanced  by  his 
imaginative  powers :  they  were  all  needed  for  his 
matchless  achievement,  and  it  was  by  their  most 
potent  aid  that  he  won  through,  in  the  end,  to  peace 
and  security.  But  no  one  can  read  his  plays  and  not 
feel  the  fierce  strain  that  they  put  upon  him.  His 
pictures  of  the  men  in  whom  imagination  is  predomi- 
nant—  Richard  II.,  Hamlet,  Macbeth  —  are  among 
the  most  wonderful  in  his  gallery,  the  most  closely 
studied,  and  intimately  realised.  But  not  even  the 
veil  of  drama  can  hide  from  us  the  admiration  and 
devotion  that  he  feels  for  those  other  men  to  whom 
action  is  easy  —  Hotspur,  the  bastard  Faulconbridge, 
or,  chief  of  all,  Othello.  These  are  the  natural  lords 
of  human-kind.  Shakespeare  holds  the  balance  steady : 
a  measure  of  the  subtle  speculative  power  of  Hamlet 
might  have  saved  Othello  from  being  made  a  murderer ; 
it  could  not  have  increased  Shakespeare's  love  for 
him. 

The  truth  is  that  Shakespeare  by  revealing  his  whole 
mind  to  us,  has  given  us  just  cause  to  complain  that 
his  mind  is  not  small  enough  to  be  comprehended  with 
ease.  It  is  one  of  man's  most  settled  habits,  when  he 
meets  with  anything  that  is  new  and  strange,  to  be 
c 


18  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

unhappy  until  he  has  named  it,  and,  when  he  has 
named  it,  to  be  for  ever  at  rest.  Science  is  retarded 
not  a  little  by  the  false  sense  of  explanation  that  comes 
from  the  use  of  Greek  and  Latin  names,  which,  when 
they  are  examined,  prove  to  be  nothing  but  laborious 
descriptions  of  the  facts  to  be  explained.  The  naming 
and  re-naming  of  Shakespeare,  which  has  gone  on 
merrily  for  centuries  under  the  care  of  sponsors  good 
and  evil,  is  more  mischievous  than  this :  the  names 
given  to  him  are  not  even  fairly  descriptive  of  a 
difficulty.  They  are  labels  impudently  affixed  to  one 
aspect  or  another  of  his  many-sided  work.  Books 
have  been  written  to  prove  that  he  was  an  atheist; 
that  he  was  a  Roman  Catholic;  that  he  was  an 
Anglican ;  that  he  was  a  man  deeply  imbued  with  the 
traditions  and  sentiments  of  a  Puritanic  home  —  for,  to 
the  credit  of  human  intelligence  be  it  recorded,  no  one 
has  yet  said,  in  so  many  words,  that  he  was  a  Puritan. 
Party  government  was  not  invented  in  his  day ;  but 
much  ink  has  been  spent  on  the  attempt  to  classify 
his  political  convictions,  and  to  reduce  them  to  a  type. 
If  those  attempts  had  been  successful,  they  would  help 
us  but  little.  A  creed,  religious  or  political,  is  the 
voice  of  a  community  rather  than  the  expression  of 
individual  character :  if  Shakespeare  were  fitted  with 
a  creed,  the  personal  differences  which  made  him  what 
he  was  would  remain  as  dark  as  ever.  Men  are  the 
dupes  of  their  own  games.  There  are  writers  on  grave 
themes  who  cannot  dispense  with  metaphors  drawn 
from  the  cricket-field.  There  are  historical  and  literary 
philosophers  to  whom  Whig  and  Tory  are  the  alpha 
and  omega  of  criticism.  Party  names  are  exhilarating ; 
they  mean  a  side  taken,  and  a  fight.  But  it  is  perhaps 
not  unnatural  that  language  invented  for  the  practical 
needs  of  controversy  should  prove  wholly  inadequate 


i.]  SHAKESPEARE  19 

to  illuminate  the  shifting  phases  of  the  life  of  contem- 
plation. 

Shakespeare  was  that  rarest  of  all  things,  a  whole 
man.  It  is  only  warped  and  stunted  partisans  who 
are  unable  to  see  any  virtue  or  truth  on  the  other  side. 
A  Catholic  who  finds  no  force  in  the  Protestant  posi- 
tion, a  Protestant  who  has  never  felt  the  fascination 
of  the  Catholic  ideal,  —  these  are  not  the  best  of  their 
kind;  and  if  all  were  like  them,  the  strife  of  party 
would  sink  below  the  level  of  humanity.  They  are 
"  damn'd,  like  an  ill-roasted  egg,  all  on  one  side."  But 
even  among  those  whose  width  of  sympathy  keeps  life 
sweet,  there  are  few  indeed  who  dare  court  comparison 
with  Shakespeare's  utter  freedom  of  thought.  He  will 
never  buy  favour  and  familiarity  with  one  party  at  the 
price  of  neglecting  or  miscalling  another.  He  loved 
the  Court,  and  the  country.  He  believed  in  authority, 
and  in  liberty.     He  could  say,  with  Troilus  — 

I  am  as  true  as  truth's  simplicity, 
And  simpler  than  the  infancy  of  truth ; 

and  with  Autolycus  — 

How  bless'd  are  we  that  are  not  simple  men  ! 

He  was  at  one  with  Isabella,  in  Measure  for  Measure, 
when  she  gives  utterance  to  the  central  truth  of 
Christianity : 

Alas,  alas : 
Why,  all  the  souls  that  were,  were  forfeit  once, 
And  he  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took, 
Found  out  the  remedy  ; 

and  with  Gloucester,  in  King  Lear,  when  from  the 
depths  of  his  despair  he  impugns  the  mercy  of 
Heaven : 

As  flies  to  wanton  boys  are  we  to  the  Gods; 
They  kill  us  for  their  sport. 


20  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

He  is,  in  a  word,  a  seer  and  a  sceptic.  There  is  no 
contradiction  in  all  this.  Large  minds  are  open  and 
wise,  where  small  minds  are  close  and  cunning.  Those 
who  have  never  seen  more  than  a  little  dare  not  ex- 
press all  their  doubts.  The  blind  have  infinite  diffi- 
culty in  determining  what  is  visible ;  and  men  of 
robust  faith  laugh  loud  and  free,  where  half-believers 
are  timid,  and  fearful  lest  they  should  stumble  into 
blasphemy.  We  look  in  vain  for  reticences  and  parti- 
alities in  Shakespeare,  little  devices  of  shelter  and 
concealment ;  he  will  not  let  us  "  nestle  into  a  corner 
of  his  mind  and  think  from  there  " ;  he  keeps  us  out 
of  doors,  and  we  find  the  width  of  his  vision  fatiguing, 
the  freedom  of  his  movements  bewildering.  He  is  at 
home  in  the  world ;  and  we  complain  that  the  place 
is  too  large  for  us,  the  visitation  of  the  winds  too 
rough  and  unceremonious.  Perhaps  we  venture  even 
to  carp  at  the  width  of  his  outlook,  —  does  it  permit 
a  man  to  attend  to  his  own  affairs,  does  it  not  wrap 
him  in  a  humorous  sadness,  "  compounded  of  many 
simples,  extracted  from  many  objects,"  and  unfit  him 
for  the  duty  of  the  hour  ?  But  Shakespeare's  apology 
for  his  own  life  is  more  than  sufficient.  We  know 
something  of  what  he  felt  and  thought,  for  he  has 
told  us.  If  we  ask  what  he  did,  his  answer  admits 
of  no  human  retort  —  he  wrote  his  plays. 

The  breadth  and  impartiality  of  Shakespeare's  view  of 
things  has  been  recognised  in  that  great  commonplace  of 
criticism  which  compares  him  with  Nature.  The  critics 
say  many  and  various  things  ;  but  they  all  say  this.  On 
the  tablet  under  his  bust  in  Stratford  Church  he  is 
called  "  Shakespeare,  with  whom  quick  Nature  died." 
Ben  Jonson  continues  and  enlarges  the  comparison : 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 
And  joy'd  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines. 


i.]  SHAKESPEARE  21 

Milton  celebrates  his  "  native  woodnotes  wild."  "  He 
was  the  man,"  says  Dryden,  "  who  of  all  modern,  and 
perhaps  ancient  poets,  had  the  largest  and  most  com- 
prehensive soul.  All  the  images  of  Nature  were  still 
present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them,  not  laboriously, 
but  luckily  ;  when  he  describes  anything,  you  more 
than  see  it,  you  feel  it  too.  Those  who  accuse  him 
to  have  wanted  learning,  give  him  the  greater  com- 
mendation :  he  was  naturally  learned  ;  he  needed  not 
the  spectacles  of  books  to  read  Nature ;  he  looked 
inwards,  and  found  her  there."  So  the  figure  is  handed 
on,  and  is  elaborated  and  heightened.  It  gives  Pope 
his  happiest  sentence  :  "  The  Poetry  of  Shakespeare 
was  Inspiration  indeed  :  he  is  not  so  much  an  Imitator, 
as  an  Instrument,  of  Nature ;  and  'tis  not  so  just  to 
say  that  he  speaks  from  her,  as  that  she  speaks  thro' 
him."  Johnson  repeats  the  same  theme:  "Shake- 
speare is  above  all  writers,  at  least  above  all  modern 
writers,  the  poet  of  nature ;  the  poet  that  holds  up 
to  his  readers  a  faithful  mirror  of  manners  and  of 
life."  To  these  formal  verdicts  must  be  added  all  that 
wealth  of  metaphor  which  is  spent  on  the  effort  to  rise 
to  the  occasion :  Shakespeare's  irregularities,  says  Pope, 
are  like  the  irregularities  of  "  an  ancient  majestic  piece 
of  Gothic  Architecture,  compared  with  a  neat  Modern 
building";  his  work,  says  Johnson,  differs  from  that 
of  more  correct  writers  as  a  forest  differs  from  a 
garden ;  his  laugh,  says  Mr.  Meredith,  is  "  broad  as 
ten  thousand  beeves  at  pasture."  Nothing  less  than 
the  visible  world,  in  all  its  most  various  and  imposing 
aspects,  is  accepted  as  a  synonym  for  Shakespeare. 

In  so  far  as  these  comparisons  are  directed  to  set- 
ting forth  the  catholicity  and  sanity  of  Shakespeare's 
genius,  they  are  just  and  true.  The  identification 
of  Shakespeare  with  Nature  is,  nevertheless,  somewhat 


22  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

extravagant,  and  has  made  way  for  a  host  of  fallacies. 
On  a  closer  examination,  it  appears  that  no  two  of 
the  critics  mean  the  same  thing  by  that  Nature  whom 
they  invoke.  Pope  means  originality  ;  and  contrasts 
Shakespeare,  drawing  direct  from  the  life,  with 
Homer,  whose  art  "  came  to  him  not  without  some 
tincture  of  the  learning,  or  some  cast  of  the  models, 
of  those  before  him."  But  what  is  here  said  of  Homer 
has  been  proved,  by  later  investigation,  to  be  very 
exactly  true  of  Shakespeare.  Johnson  intends  modesty 
and  probability ;  Shakespeare  has  no  heroes,  only 
men ;  he  keeps  love  in  its  proper  place  as  an  agent 
in  human  affairs :  his  dialogue  is  level  with  life.  What 
Milton  was  thinking  of  is  not  very  certain ;  he  may 
be  praising  the  spontaneity  of  the  lyrics,  or  remember- 
ing the  pastoral  and  woodland  scenes  of  the  comedies ; 
in  either  case  he  is  far  enough  from  Pope  and  Johnson. 
Lesser  critics  have  drawn  the  comparison  into  a  wild 
diversity  of  error.  Some,  like  John  Ward,  Vicar  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  and  unlike  Ben  Jonson,  have 
judged  Shakespeare  to  be  "a  natural  wit,  without 
any  art  at  all."  Others,  whose  name  is  legion,  have 
held  that  since  Shakespeare  is  Nature,  the  right  way 
to  study  him  is  the  way  of  the  naturalist ;  they  have 
treated  his  work  as  if  it  were  an  encyclopaedia  of 
information,  and  have  parcelled  it  out  in  provinces, 
writing  immeasurable  books  on  Shakespeare's  divinity, 
Shakespeare's  heraldry,  Shakespeare's  law  and  medicine, 
Shakespeare's  birds,  beasts,  fishes,  and  insects,  —  all 
tacitly  proceeding  on  the  strange  assumption  that  it 
was  a  part  of  Shakespeare's  purpose  to  impart  an 
accurate  knowledge  of  those  branches  of  learning, 
and  that  by  his  success  his  true  greatness  may  be 
judged.  These  are  the  entomologists  of  criticism: 
to  the  less  learned  populace  the  Nature   simile  has 


I.] 


SHAKESPEARE  23 


been  an  excuse  for  sheer  lack  of  criticism  ;  they  have 
persisted  in  their  old,  lazy,  unimaginative  habit  of 
considering  Shakespeare's  men  and  women  as  the 
creatures  of  nature,  rather  than  of  dramatic  art.  Let 
us  make  an  end  of  this,  and  do  justice  to  Shakespeare 
the  craftsman.  The  great  hyperbole  which  confuses 
him  with  his  Creator  has  served  its  original  cere- 
monial purpose  ;  it  is  time  to  remember  that  the  King 
is  but  a  man,  and  that  all  his  senses  have  but  human 
conditions. 

One  quality  which  has  been  attributed  to  Shake- 
speare in  his  character  of  Nature,  and  has  been  used 
to  fortify  the  parallel,  is  certainly  his  by  right.  A 
very  old  and  persistent  tradition  makes  him  the 
master  of  an  incomparable  ease  and  fluency.  "His 
mind  and  hand  went  together,"  say  his  friends  and 
editors,  Heminge  and  Condell,  "  and  what  he  thought, 
he  uttered  with  that  easiness,  that  we  have  scarce 
received  from  him  a  blot  in  his  papers."  The  credi- 
bility of  these  witnesses  has  been  attacked,  even  their 
good  faith  has  been  questioned,  but  here,  at  least,  is 
a  statement  which,  in  its  main  drift,  every  reader  of 
Shakespeare  feels  to  be  true.  Nor  does  it  lack  strong 
confirmation.  "  He  had  an  excellent  phantasy," 
says  Ben  Jonson,  "  brave  notions  and  gentle  expres- 
sions; wherein  he  flowed  with  that  facility,  that 
sometime  it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stopped." 
No  one  who  has  ever  been  caught  in  the  torrent  of 
Shakespeare's  ideas  and  metaphors  could  mistake  him 
for  a  slow,  painful,  and  laborious  writer.  The  frank 
geniality  of  the  man  and  the  excitable  fervour  of 
the  talker  are  matched  by  the  unchecked  exuberance 
of  the  poet.  Economy  is  no  part  of  his  habitual 
method.  He  does  not  waylay  his  meaning,  and  cap- 
ture  it   at   a  blow,  but   hunts   it   with   a   full   cry 


21  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

of  hounds,  attended  by  a  gay  and  motley  company. 
His  mind  is  rich  in  ornaments,  images,  and  after- 
thoughts. His  style  is  full  of  incidents  and  surprises ; 
when  he  makes  an  end  he  has  commonly  told  you 
far  more  than  he  set  out  to  tell  you.  In  his  later 
plays  he  is  more  condensed,  not  by  the  chastening 
of  his  method,  but  by  the  crowded  enrichment  of  his 
matter.  Always  the  method  is  the  same ;  the  phrase 
or  sentence  that  does  not  quite  do  his  business  is 
retained  in  his  service,  and  another  is  added  to  com- 
pete with  it  and  overtake  it ;  wave  follows  wave  and 
breaks  short  of  the  goal,  until,  at  the  ninth  time  of 
asking,  the  master-wave  gathers  the  others  into  itself, 
and  surrounds  you  and  lifts  you.  When  he  becomes 
severe  and  bare,  as  he  commonly  does  at  the  top  of 
his  tragic  passion,  it  is  not  by  the  excision  of  super- 
fluities, but  by  the  very  intensity  of  the  situation, 
which  catches  his  eloquent  fancy  by  the  throat,  and 
compels  him  to  put  his  meaning  into  a  few  broken 
words.  Let  but  the  grip  of  facts  be  relaxed  for  a 
moment,  his  discursive  imagination  rouses  itself  again, 
and  the  full  current  of  speech  is  resumed.  In  this 
way  Shakespeare  often  gives  a  double  expressiveness 
to  a  tragic  crisis,  and  alternates  dramatic  silence  with 
poetic  eloquence.  The  high-strung  whispered  conver- 
sation of  Macbeth  with  his  wife,  carried  on  in  mono- 
syllables of  question  and  reply,  is  followed  at  once  by 
his  great  imaginative  outburst  on  the  murder  of  inno- 
cent sleep.  The  parting  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  is 
first  made  beautiful  by  the  poetic  lament  of  Troilus  : 

We  two,  that  with  so  many  thousand  sighs 
Did  buy  each  other,  must  poorly  sell  ourselves 
With  the  rude  brevity  and  discharge  of  one. 
Injurious  Time  now  with  a  robber's  haste 
Crams  bis  rich  thievery  up,  he  knows  not  how  : 


I.]  SHAKESPEARE  25 

As  many  farewells  as  be  stars  in  heaven, 

With  distinct  breath  and  consign'd  kisses  to  them, 

He  fumbles  up  into  a  loose  adieu ; 

And  scants  us  with  a  single  famish'd  kiss, 

Distasting  with  the  salt  of  broken  tears. 

Then  crude  fact  has  its  turn,  and  the  voice  of  Aeneas 
is  heard  calling  — 

My  Lord,  is  the  Lady  ready? 

It  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  moving  situation  in 
Shakespeare  where  he  does  not  find  or  make  an  oppor- 
tunity to  give  a  loose  to  his  pen  and  to  pour  out  some 
scantling  at  least  of  the  riotous  wealth  of  his  imagina- 
tion. His  ease  is  so  great,  that  his  wildest  conceits 
hardly  seem  far-fetched.  They  throng  about  him  like 
poor  suitors  proffering  their  services,  and  the  magnifi- 
cence of  his  generosity  finds  them  work  to  do. 

For  an  intimate  knowledge  of  Shakespeare  we  are 
dependent  chiefly  on  his  book.  Yet  some  facts  of  his 
life  are  recorded  in  extant  documents,  and  some  others 
may  be  accepted,  without  too  great  a  risk,  from  tradi- 
tion and  allusion.  It  is  just  possible  that  the  store  of 
facts  concerning  him  may  yet  be  increased.  But  it  is 
not  likely ;  now  that  antiquaries  and  scholars  have 
toiled  for  generations,  with  an  industry  beyond  all 
praise,  in  the  search  for  lost  memorials.  These  are 
the  diligent  workers  among  the  ruins,  who,  when  the 
fabric  of  our  knowledge  has  crumbled  to  atoms,  still 

As  for  seed  of  stars,  stoop  for  the  sand, 
And  by  incessant  labour  gather  all. 

The  enthusiasm  which  keeps  them  at  work  has  been 
truly  described  by  one  of  the  chief  of  them,  Mr. 
Halliwell-Phillipps.  "  No  journey,"  he  says,  "  is  too 
long,  no  trouble  too  great,  if  there  is  a  possibility  of 


26  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

either  resulting  in  the  discovery  of  the  minutest  scrap 
of  information  respecting  the  life  of  our  national  poet." 
By  these  ungrudging  labours  all  that  we  are  entitled 
to  hope  for  has  been  achieved,  and  the  Life  of  Shake- 
speare begins  to  assume  the  appearance  of  a  scrap- 
heap  of  respectable  size.  Many,  perhaps  the  majority, 
of  the  facts  preserved  have  lost  their  connection  and 
meaning,  so  that,  unless  we  are  willing  to  eke  them 
out  with  a  liberal  fancy,  they  serve  us  not  at  all  in 
our  effort  to  portray  the  man.  Another  and  a  more 
valuable  resource  is  left  to  us.  We  may  study  the 
human  conditions  which  affected  his  life  and  work. 
The  habits  and  customs,  the  ideas  and  tendencies  of 
his  own  age,  make  a  living  background  for  him,  and 
are  everywhere  reflected  in  his  plays.  These,  in  a 
certain  sense,  supplied  him  with  his  material ;  and  to 
these  must  be  added  the  books  that  he  read,  the 
histories  that  he  rifled  for  their  information,  and  the 
poems  and  plays  that  he  studied  for  their  art.  Even 
more  important  than  the  material  of  his  art  is  the 
instrument,  fashioned  for  him  by  others,  and  only 
slightly  modified  by  himself.  To  become  a  popular 
playwright,  which  Shakespeare  certainly  was,  a  man 
must  adapt  his  treatment  of  human  life  to  the  require- 
ments of  the  stage  on  which  his  plays  are  presented ; 
he  must  consult  the  abilities  of  the  members  of  his 
company,  and  fit  them  with  likely  parts ;  further  —  let 
it  not  be  thought  a  disgrace  to  mention  a  condition 
which  Shakespeare  endeavoured,  with  zeal  and  success, 
to  fulfil  —  he  must  study  the  tastes  and  expectations 
of  his  audience,  and  indulge  them  with  what  they 
approve.  All  this  he  must  do,  yet  not  forget  the 
other.  His  own  vision  of  poetic  beauty  and  his  own 
interpretation  of  human  life  are  to  be  set  forth  under 
these  rigid  conditions  and  conventions.     Here  is  the 


i.]  SHAKESPEARE  27 

artist's  opportunity :  to  observe  the  convention,  as 
he  observes  the  formalities  of  the  sonnet,  yet  to 
make  its  very  restraints  a  means  of  greater  triumph, 
to  subdue  them  and  use  them  towards  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  own  most  serious  meaning.  In 
nothing  is  Shakespeare's  greatness  more  apparent  than 
in  his  concessions  to  the  requirements  of  the  Elizabethan 
theatre,  concessions  made  sparingly  and  with  an  ill 
grace  by  some  of  his  contemporaries,  by  him  offered 
with  both  hands,  yet  transmuted  in  the  giving,  so  that 
what  might  have  been  a  mere  connivance  in  baseness 
becomes  a  miracle  of  expressive  art.  The  audience 
asked  for  bloodshed,  and  he  gave  them  Hamlet.  They 
asked  for  foolery,  and  he  gave  them  King  Lear. 

Lastly,  to  understand  Shakespeare,  it  is  necessary  to 
study  the  subtlest  of  his  instruments  —  the  language 
that  he  wielded.  Here  the  good  progress  made  in 
recent  times  by  the  science  of  language  is  of  little 
avail :  most  of  the  masters  of  that  science  are  men 
who  know  all  that  can  be  known  about  language 
except  the  uses  to  which  it  is  put.  The  methods  of 
science  are  invaluable,  and  they  will  prove  fruitful 
in  the  study  of  Shakespeare  when  they  come  to  be 
applied  by  those  who  understand  how  poetry  is  made, 
and  who  join  the  end  to  the  beginning.  Without  a 
knowledge  of  common  Elizabethan  usages,  colloquial 
and  literary,  it  is  impossible  to  give  Shakespeare  the  due 
share  of  credit  for  his  handling  of  his  native  speech. 
His  amazing  wealth  of  vocabulary  and  idiom,  his 
coinages  and  violent  distortions  of  meaning,  his  free- 
doms of  syntax  and  analogy,  comparable  only  to  the 
freedoms  that  are  habitual  in  the  "little  language" 
of  a  family  of  children,  —  all  these  things  must  be 
assessed,  and  compared  with  the  normal  standards  of 
his  time,  before  they  can  be  known  for  a  part  of  him. 


28  SHAKESPEARE  [chap.  i. 

The  dogmatic  grammarians,  a  race  not  yet  wholly 
extinct,  make  rules  for  language  as  Aristotle  made 
rules  for  the  epic  poem,  and  impose  their  chill  models 
on  submissive  decadence.  Much  of  Shakespeare's 
language  is  language  hot  from  the  mind,  and  only 
partially  hardened  into  grammar.  It  cannot  be  judged 
save  by  those  whose  ease  of  apprehension  goes  some 
way  to  meet  his  ease  of  expression. 

Here,  then,  is  matter  enough  and  to  spare.  A  brief 
essay  cannot  hope  to  achieve  much.  'Tis  too  late  to 
be  ambitious.  Among  the  topics,  old  and  new,  which 
are  fit  for  treatment,  a  selection  must  be  made,  and 
of  those  selected  none  can  be  exhaustively  handled. 
What  is  chosen  shall  be  chosen  with  a  single  aim  in 
view :  the  mind  of  Shakespeare  is  to  be  seen  at  work  ; 
and  to  that  end  the  raw  material  of  his  craft,  and  the 
nature  of  the  tools  that  he  employed,  must  be  con- 
sidered in  the  closest  possible  connection  with  that 
marvellous  body  of  poetry  which,  by  its  vitality  and 
beauty,  has  cast  some  shadow  of  disesteem  on  the 
forgotten  processes  of  its  making. 


CHAPTEK  II 

STRATFORD    AND    LONDON 

William  Shakespeare  came  of  a  family  of  yeomen  in 
the  county  of  Warwick.  The  name  was  a  common  one 
in  many  parts  of  England,  and  during  the  sixteenth 
century  occurs  in  some  twenty-four  places  of  that 
county  alone.  There  were  several  William  Shake- 
speares.  One  was  drowned  in  the  Avon  and  buried 
at  Warwick  in  1579.  Another,  some  forty  years 
later,  was  a  small  farmer's  agent ;  and  perhaps  it  was 
he,  not  the  creator  of  Shylock,  who  in  1604  sued 
Philip  Eogers  for  £1,  15s.  10d.,  the  price  of  malt 
supplied.  A  third,  the  son  of  John  Shakespeare, 
Chamberlain  of  the  borough,  was  baptized  at  Stratford 
on  the  26th  of  April  1564,  and  lived  to  be  the  author 
of  the  plays. 

It  seems  probable  that  Shakespeare's  grandfather 
was  one  Richard  Shakespeare,  a  small  farmer  at 
Snitterfield,  and  a  tenant  of  the  Ardens  of  Wilmecote. 
Of  this  Richard  we  know  nothing  to  the  purpose ;  he 
is  a  name  and  a  shadow,  flitting  through  the  records 
of  the  time.  John  Shakespeare,  the  poet's  father,  is 
the  first  of  the  stock  whom  it  is  possible  to  draw  in 
outline,  and  to  conceive  as  a  character.  He  came  to 
Stratford  not  later  than  1552,  and  there  traded  in 
farm-produce  as  glover,  dealer  in  wool,  and  butcher. 
The  diversity  of  the  trades  assigned  to  him  need  cause 
no    incredulity ;    such    a    combination    was    possible 

29 


30  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

enough  in  a  town  surrounded  by  pasture-land,  and 
seems  to  testify  to  his  restless  enterprise  in  business. 
He  prospered  rapidly,  was  successful  in  small  law- 
suits, acquired  property,  married  an  heiress,  and  was 
advanced  to  high  office,  becoming,  in  a  short  series  of 
years,  ale-taster,  constable,  affeeror,  chamberlain,  alder- 
man ;  lastly,  when  his  son  William  was  four  years  old, 
he  attained  the  summit  of  his  municipal  ambition,  and 
appears  as  Justice  of  the  Peace  and  High  Bailiff  of  the 
Town.  Then  his  affairs  declined ;  he  who  was  wont 
to  be  plaintiff  and  triumphant  creditor  assumes  the 
more  melancholy  character  of  defendant  and  insolvent 
debtor ;  he  mortgages  his  wife's  estate,  absents  him- 
self from  the  meetings  of  the  Town  Council,  is  deprived 
of  his  alderman's  gown,  ceases  to  attend  church  and 
is  presented  as  a  recusant ;  but  continues,  as  he  began, 
incurably  litigious.  During  his  later  years  we  hear  no 
more  of  financial  difficulties,  and  it  has  been  reasonably 
assumed  that  the  success  of  his  son  restored  the  family 
fortunes.  At  the  close  of  the  century  he  succeeded, 
after  repeated  applications,  in  obtaining  the  grant  of 
a  coat-of-arms ;  in  1601  he  died,  and  was  buried  at 
Stratford.  The  bare  facts,  so  far  as  they  lend  them- 
selves to  portraiture,  seem  to  supply  suggestions  for 
the  picture  of  an  energetic,  pragmatic,  sanguine,  frothy 
man,  who  was  always  restlessly  scheming  and  could 
not  make  good  his  gains.  "  He  spread  his  bread  with 
all  sorts  of  butter,  yet  none  would  stick  thereon."  We 
guess  him  to  have  been  of  a  mercurial  temperament, 
and  are  not  surprised  to  find  that  he  was  a  lover  of 
dramatic  shows.  During  his  tenure  of  the  office  of 
High  Bailiff,  wandering  companies  of  players  make 
their  first  recorded  appearance  at  Stratford,  and  per- 
form before  the  Town  Council,  receiving  money  for 
their    pains.     In    business    he   seems   to   have   been 


ii.]  STRATFORD  AND  LONDON  31 

fervent,  unsteady,  and  irrepressible ;  in  speech  he  may 
well  have  been  excitable,  sententious,  and  dogmatic. 
It  is  worthy  of  notice  that  Shakespeare,  in  his  earlier 
plays,  shows  but  scant  regard  for  the  wisdom  of  the 
older  generation.  In  Borneo  and  Juliet  and  The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew  the  seniors  are  troublesome  stage-fathers, 
impertinent,  dull-witted,  talkative,  moral,  and  asinine. 
The  speculation  is  impious,  but  stranger  things  are 
true,  and  if  the  father  of  Charles  Dickens  lent  his 
likeness  to  Mr.  Micawber,  it  is  at  least  possible  that 
some  not  unkindly  memories  of  the  paternal  advices  of 
John  Shakespeare  have  been  preserved  for  us  in  the 
sage  maxims  of  Polonius.  Some  fathers  of  famous 
writers  we  feel  to  have  been  better  men  than  their 
sons,  saner,  more  modest,  and  preserved  from  fame  not 
by  their  lack  of  vigour,  but  by  their  hatred  of  excess. 
Such  was  the  father  of  Thomas  Carlyle.  Others  by 
their  very  extravagances  have  helped  to  school  their 
sons  into  sanity  and  wisdom;  the  fervour  of  their 
temper  has  passed  on  undiminished,  but  their  mis- 
carriages leave  much  work  to  do,  and  their  failings 
teach  self-criticism  to  those  who  succeed  them.  Such, 
perhaps,  was  the  father  of  William  Shakespeare. 

His  mother,  Mary  Arden,  was  a  small  heiress,  and 
what  is  more  important,  seems  to  have  been  of  gentle 
birth.  "  By  the  spindle-side,"  says  that  excellent 
antiquary,  Mrs.  Stopes,  "  his  pedigree  can  be  traced 
straight  back  to  Guy  of  Warwick  and  the  good  King 
Alfred.  There  is  something  in  fallen  fortune  that 
lends  a  subtler  romance  to  the  consciousness  of  a 
noble  ancestry,  and  we  may  be  sure  this  played  no 
small  part  in  the  making  of  the  poet."  And  this  is 
not  all.  Shakespeare  was  "  to  the  manner  born." 
From  the  very  first  he  has  an  unerringly  sure  touch 
with  the  character  of  his  high-born  ladies ;  he  knows 


32  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

all  that  can  neither  be  learned  by  method  nor  taught 
in  words,  —  the  unwritten  code  of  delicate  honour,  the 
rapidity  and  confidence  of  decision,  the  quickness  of 
sympathy,  the  absolute  trust  in  instinct,  and  the  un- 
hesitating freedom  of  speech. 

In  Shakespeare's  day  the  forest  of  Arden,  stretching 
away  to  the  north  of  the  river,  was  more  than  a 
name ;  and  much  of  his  boyhood  was  spent  in  that 
best  of  schools,  a  wild  and  various  country.  At  the 
Grammar  School  he  would  learn  Latin,  and  make 
acquaintance  with  those  numerous  games  which  re- 
ceive honourable  mention  in  the  plays.  Doubtless, 
like  Falstaff,  he  "pluckt  geese,  played  truant,  and 
whipt  top,"  and  "knew  what  'twas  to  be  beaten." 
Children's  games  are  eternal :  Hood  man -blind,  Barley- 
break,  All  hid,  Dun's  in  the  mire,  —  these  vary  from 
age  to  age  in  nothing  but  the  name,  and  though  they 
afford  a  natural  outlet  for  activity,  they  are  seldom 
the  landmarks  of  a  travelling  soul.  Adventures  by 
field  and  forest,  on  the  other  hand,  may  very  easily 
become  dates  in  the  life  of  a  poet.  Shakespeare  must 
have  wandered  for  whole  days  and  nights  about  the 
countryside,  and  was  delicately  sensitive  to  all  the 
shifting  aspects  of  the  pageant  of  Nature,  to  Spring 
and  Autumn,  daAvn  and  sunset,  wind  and  cloud.  His 
plays  abound  in  passages  which  bear  all  the  marks  of 
detailed  reminiscence.  In  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
Titania  describes  a  summer  of  tempest  and  flood 
which  has  drowned  the  low-lying  lands  near  the 
river  : 

The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain, 
The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat,  and  the  green  corn 
Hath  rotted,  ere  his  youth  attain'd  a  beard  ; 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field  ; 
The  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrion  flock  ; 


ii.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  33 

The  Nine  men's  morris  is  fill'd  up  with  mud, 
And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green 
For  lack  of  tread  are  undistinguishable. 

Puck,  in  the  same  play,  illustrates  the  flight  of  the 
panic-stricken  rustics,  when  they  behold  their  trans- 
figured chief,  by  a  familiar  incident  of  the  Stratford 
fields : 

As  wild-geese,  that  the  creeping  fowler  eye, 
Or  russet-pated  choughs,  many  in  sort, 
Rising  and  cawing  at  the  gun's  report, 
Sever  themselves,  and  madly  sweep  the  sky, 
So  at  his  sight  away  his  fellows  fly. 

But  the  deep  impression  made  on  Shakespeare  by  his 
early  memories  of  Stratford  may  be  best  seen  in  pass- 
ages where  they  are  associated  with  the  moods  and 
fancies  of  his  own  mind.  To  a  poet,  Nature  is  not  a 
collection  of  things,  but  an  influence,  a  reflection, 
a  counterpart  to  the  drama  of  his  soul.  Now  it  is 
the  course  of  true  love  that  suggests  the  flow  of  quiet 
midland  streams : 

The  current  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides 

Thou  know'st  being  stop'd,  impatiently  doth  rage  ; 

But  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 

He  makes  sweet  music  with  th'  enamel'd  stones, 

Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 

He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage. 

Or,  again,  he  remembers 

the  pleached  bower, 
Where  honey-suckles  ripened  by  the  sun 
Forbid  the  sun  to  enter  ; 

and  his  mind  wanders  off  to  the  ingratitude  of  princes' 
favourites.  His  memories  of  Nature,  of  "the  uncer- 
tain glory  of  an  April  day,"  of  the  sun  "  gilding  pale 
streams  with  heavenly  alchemy,"  of  the  ugly  rack  of 


34  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

clouds  that  steal  across  his  face,  of  the  "  canker  in  the 
fragrant  rose,"  and  of  the  ruin  of  autumn, 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 

—  all  these  things  are  utterly  unlike  the  laborious 
notes  of  a  descriptive  writer ;  they  have  put  on  im- 
mortality in  metaphor,  and  come  readily  to  hand 
because  they  are  a  part  of  his  own  life,  and  have  been 
taught  to  speak  the  language  of  his  own  thought. 

To  a  lover  of  human  drama,  the  moving  incidents  of 
life  in  the  country,  and  the  excitements  of  sport  and 
the  chase,  must  have  been  full  of  interest.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  Shakespeare  was  minutely  acquainted 
with  all  the  lore  of  field-sports,  —  the  hunt  of  the 
hare  and  the  stag,  and  the  capture  of  smaller  game 
by  the  falcon.  His  knowledge  of  these  things,  as  Mr. 
Vice-Chancellor  Madden  has  shown,  would  have  done 
credit  to  an  old  huntsman.  It  is  true  that  here  also 
he  uses  his  knowledge  by  way  of  illustration,  and  so 
seems  to  appeal  to  an  audience  well  versed  in  the 
terms  of  sport.  Even  Juliet  is  perfectly  accomplished 
in  the  tongue : 

Hist,  Romeo,  hist  !     0  for  a  falconer's  voice 
To  lure  this  tassel-gentle  back  again  ! 


'&» 


In  her  beautiful  invocation  to  Night,  the  quick  flushing 
of  her  cheeks,  as  she  waits  for  the  sun  to  set,  suggests 
a  whole  parable  of  hawking,  and  of  taming,  or  "  man- 
ning "  wild  hawks,  as  they  "  bate,"  or  flutter  on  the 
perch,  by  the  use  of  a  velvet  hood : 

Hood  my  unmann'd  blood,  bating  in  my  cheeks, 
With  thy  black  mantle  ;  till  strange  love,  grown  bold, 
Think  true  love  acted  simple  modesty. 

There  is  no  play  of  Shakespeare's  without  some  of 


ii.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  35 

these  allusions,  and  he  is  as  familiar  with  the  points 
of  a  horse  and  the  kinds  and  qualities  of  hounds  and 
deer  as  with  the  forgotten  science  of  falconry.  But  it 
would  seem  that  some  part,  at  least,  of  his  knowledge 
is  the  knowledge  of  an  onlooker  rather  than  a  hunts- 
man. He  is  true  here  to  his  own  wide  sympathy,  and 
cannot  forget  the  quarry  in  the  chase,  —  true  also,  per- 
haps, to  his  earliest  memories.  Two  of  his  most  won- 
derful pictures  are,  first,  the  description,  in  As  You  Like 
It,  of  the  anguish  of  the  sequestered  stag,  wounded  by 
the  hunters ;  and,  yet  more  vivid,  the  picture  drawn  in 
Venus  and  Adonis  of  poor  Wat,  the  hare,  standing  erect, 
in  a  passion  of  apprehension,  listening  for  the  distant 
cry  of  the  hounds  : 

Then  shalt  thou  see  the  dew-bedabbled  wretch 
Turn,  and  return,  indenting  with  the  way  ; 
Each  envious  briar  his  weary  legs  doth  scratch, 
Each  shadow  makes  him  stop,  each  murmur  stay  : 
For  misery  is  trodden  on  by  many, 
And  being  low,  never  reliev'd  by  any. 

Is  not  this  a  description  of  the  hunt  as  it?  might  be 
seen  by  a  boy  playing  truant  from  school,  and  choosing 
a  brake  near  a  hill-top  as  a  vantage-ground  for  observa- 
tion and  concealment  ? 

As  for  Natural  History  in  the  modern  sense,  Shake- 
speare knew  little  about  it,  and  cared  even  less.  The 
social  life  of  the  humbler  creatures  did  not  engage 
his  attention.  It  has  been  truly  said  that  he  was 
"  curiously  unobservant  of  animated  Nature."  The 
habits  of  birds  and  beasts  and  fishes  seem  to  come 
immediately  under  his  eye  only  when  they  touch  the 
daily  interests  of  average  humanity.  When  he  wants 
an  illustration  from  animal  life  for  the  figurative  ex- 
position of  his  thought,  he  is  content,  as  often  as  not, 
to  make  use  of   the  commodious  lies  of  picturesque 


36  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

tradition.  The  toad  that  wears  a  precious  jewel  in  his 
head,  the  unicorn  that  is  betrayed  with  trees,  the 
basilisk  that  kills  at  sight,  the  bear-whelp  that  is 
licked  into  shape  by  its  mother,  the  pelican  that  feeds 
her  young  with  her  own  blood,  the  phoenix  of  Arabia, 
the  serpent  of  Egypt,  and  the  Hyrcan  tiger,  —  all  these 
he  accepts  without  question  for  the  decoration  of  his 
style.  When  he  deals  with  creatures  nearer  home  he 
follows  the  same  plan,  and  adopts  all  those  popular 
prejudices  which  have  embedded  themselves  in  the 
phrases  of  daily  speech.  "  Dog  "  —  except  when  the 
dog  helps  in  the  chase  —  he  commonly  uses  as  a  term 
of  vituperation.  Cats  are  "  creatures  we  count  not 
worth  the  hanging."  In  these  usages  he  is  merely 
taking  words  as  he  finds  them,  and  refusing  to  im- 
poverish the  language  of  abuse  by  a  forlorn  protest 
on  behalf  of  the  goose,  the  ass,  the  ape,  the  dog,  or 
the  cat.  When  Launce's  clog,  Crab,  makes  his  bodily 
appearance  on  the  stage,  in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,  these  ancient  prejudices  are  discarded,  and  the 
dog  is  admitted  to  fellowship  with  man.  But  the 
wild  creatures  of  the  fields  and  the  woods,  because 
they  have  never  run  the  risk  of  familiarity  with 
slanderous  man,  are  for  the  most  part  outside  this 
argument  of  rhetorical  usage  ;  and  are  outside  the 
circle  of  Shakespeare's  sympathetic  observation.  The 
encyclopaedic  and  naturalist  critics  have  made  plentiful 
assertions  to  the  contrary ;  Dr.  Brandes,  accepting  the 
myth,  has  praised  Shakespeare  for  his  "  astonishing 
store  of  natural  knowledge,"  and  his  inexhaustible 
familiarity  with  the  habits  of  animals  and  birds. 
The  following  are  the  examples  invoked  for  proof : 
Shakespeare  knew  that  the  greyhound's  mouth 
catches ;  that  pigeons  feed  their  young ;  that  her- 
rings are  bigger  than  pilchards ;  that  trout  are  caught 


ii.]  STRATFORD  AND  LONDON  37 

with  tickling;  that  the  lapwing  runs  close  to  the 
ground ;  that  the  cuckoo  lays  its  eggs  in  the  nests 
of  other  birds;  that  the  lark  resembles  the  bunting. 
Many  a  city -bred  boy  knows  all  this  and  more.  And 
these  statements  are  cited  because,  in  the  main,  they 
are  true.  Shakespeare's  errors  would  make  a  longer 
tale.  His  nightingale  and  his  cuckoo  are  creatures 
falsified  out  of  all  knowledge  by  the  accumulated  fables 
of  tradition.  The  famous  passage  on  the  bees,  in 
Henry  V.,  is  glittering  poetry ;  but  "  as  a  description 
of  a  hive,"  says  a  critic  of  knowledge  and  parts,  "  it 
is  ut.ter  nonsense,  with  an  error  of  fact  in  every  other 
line,  and  instinct  throughout  with  a  total  misconcep- 
tion of  the  great  bee-parable."  Virgil  knew  something 
of  the  bee ;  Shakespeare  little  or  nothing. 

Let  this  suffice  :  it  would  be  a  tedious  task  to  at- 
tempt to  demolish  all  the  foolish  piles  that  have  been 
erected  with  intent  to  honour  the  poet.  Shakespeare 
was  a  master  of  language,  and  a  profound  student 
of  the  human  mind.  His  comparative  ignorance  of 
Natural  History  does  him  no  discredit.  There  is  a 
story  of  Canning,  which  John  Hookham  Frere  told 
one  day  to  his  nephew.  "I  remember,"  he  said, 
"  going  to  consult  Canning  on  a  matter  of  great 
importance  to  me,  when  he  was  staying  down  near 
Enfield.  We  walked  into  the  woods  to  have  a  quiet 
talk,  and  as  we  passed  some  ponds  I  was  surprised 
to  find  it  was  a  new  light  to  him  that  tadpoles 
turned  into  frogs.  Now,"  said  the  teller  of  the 
tale,  "  don't  you  go  and  repeat  that  story  of  Canning 
to  the  next  fool  you  meet.  Canning  could  rule,  and 
did  rule,  a  great  and  civilised  nation ;  but  in  these 
days  people  are  apt  to  fancy  that  any  one  who  does 
not  know  the  natural  history  of  frogs  must  be  an  im- 
becile in  the  treatment  of  men." 


88  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

If  Shakespeare  made  no  minute  study  of  the  cat, 
the  nightingale,  and  the  bee,  he  had  the  quickest  eye 
for  the  habits  of  the  vagrant,  the  watchman  of  a  town, 
and  the  schoolmaster.     He  has  left  us  a  very  realistic 
picture  of  an  Elizabethan  Latin-lesson  in  that  scene 
of  TJie  Merry  Wives  where  Sir  Hugh  Evans  examines 
little  William  on  his  knowledge  of  Lilly's  Grammar. 
The  three  head-masters  who  reigned  at  Stratford  from 
1570  to  1580  were  Walter  Roche,  Thomas  Hunt,  and 
Thomas  Jenkins  ;  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans  may  perhaps 
bear  some  resemblance  to  the  last  of  these.     The  more 
elaborately  drawn  and  pedantic  Holofernes,  in  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  and  Pinch,  schoolmaster  and  conjurer, 
in  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  occurring,  as  they  do,  in  very 
early  plays,  probably  owe  some  hints  to  the  school- 
master whom  Shakespeare  knew  best,  and  may  thus 
preserve  for  us  a  savour  of  the  ideas  and  apprehen- 
sions "  begot  in  the  ventricle  of  memory,  and  delivered 
upon  the  mellowing  of  occasion  "  by  Master  Thomas 
Hunt.     Holofernes   is   the   complete  academic  gram- 
marian.    But  the  extreme  gauntness  of  his  visage,  so 
boisterously  ridiculed  by  the  courtiers,  is  only  one  of 
many  indications  that  Shakespeare  had  a  lean  actor  in 
his  early  company. 

At  the  Grammar  School  much  time  was  "  bestowed 
on  the  tongues,"  and  there  is  no  reason  to  reduce 
Shakespeare's  "small  Latin"  to  the  mere  repetition 
of  a  grammar.  A  working  knowledge  of  the  Latin 
lansjuasre  was  commoner  in  that  age  than  in  this,  and 
it  is  certain  that  he  could  read  Latin  when  he  was 
so  minded.  The  ordinary  school  course  would  take  a 
boy,  by  the  time  he  was  fourteen  years  of  age,  through 
parts  at  least  of  Ovid,  Virgil,  Horace,  Juvenal,  Plautus, 
Seneca,  and  Cicero,  besides  introducing  him  to  the 
elements  of  Grammar,  Logic,  and  Rhetoric.     Yet,  for 


ii.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  39 

all  that,  Shakespeare  was  no  Latin  scholar,  and  in  his 
maturer  years  we  find  him  using  a  translation,  where- 
ever  there  was  one  to  be  had,  in  preference  to  the 
original.  The  most  popular  Latin  author  of  his  age 
was  Ovid ;  and  he  certainly  knew  Ovid,  for  he  quotes 
him  in  the  original  more  than  once,  and  chooses  a 
motto  for  Venus  and  Adonis  from  the  Elegies.  But 
his  more  elaborate  borrowings  from  Ovid  come,  for 
the  most  part,  by  way  of  Arthur  Golding's  translations 
in  doggerel  verse.  He  studied  the  classics,  that  is  to 
say,  not  chiefly  for  their  form,  but  for  their  matter ; 
Ovid  he  valued  as  a  story-teller  who  revealed  a  new 
and  enchanting  world  of  fable  and  imagination.  It  is 
possible,  but  not  likely,  that  he  had  a  smattering  of 
Greek ;  if  he  had,  it  was  so  little  as  to  make  the  ques- 
tion hardly  worth  a  minute  investigation.  The  formal 
study  of  Logic  and  Rhetoric  left  a  deeper  impression  on 
his  mind,  and  gave  him  keen  delight.  Love's  Labour's 
Lost  is  a  carnival  of  pedantry;  and  just  as  a  good 
clown  must  needs  be  a  good  acrobat,  so  he  who  shows 
such  skill  in  deriding  these  gymnastics  of  the  intellect 
proves  himself  to  have  been  carefully  exercised  in 
them.  To  the  end  of  his  life  Shakespeare  never  uses 
the  mechanical  processes  of  Logic  and  Rhetoric  without 
lending  them  a  touch  of  delightful  absurdity.  His 
syllogisms  and  classifications,  his  figures  and  distinc- 
tions, his  formal  devices  whereby  set  propositions  are 
amplified  and  confirmed  —  all  bear  witness  to  his 
studies. 

He  hath  prosperous  art 
When  he  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse. 

His  very  "  argal "  prepares  us  for  laughter.  He  riots 
in  the  multiplication  of  processes  to  attain  a  simple 
end,  and,  while  comedy  is  his  business,  will  never 


40  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

refuse  to  climb  o'er  the  house  to  unlock  the  little  gate. 
"  It  is  a  figure  in  Rhetoric,"  says  Touchstone,  "  that 
drink,  being  pour'd  out  of  a  cup  into  a  glass,  by  filling 
the  one  doth  empty  the  other."  Beyond  these  voices 
of  pedants  and  jesters  we  hear  the  verdict  of  the 
dramatist,  and  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter, 
uttered  in  a  single  sentence : 

Learning  is  but  an  adjunct  to  ourself. 

If  he  learned  little  Latin  at  school,  it  is  the  more  to 
be  regretted ;  he  certainly  learned  little  else.  For  a 
knowledge  of  modern  history  he  was  dependent  on 
his  own  reading,  on  conversation,  and  tradition.  He 
would  hear  much,  though  hardly  in  open  discussion, 
of  the  Protestant  Reformation  and  the  religious 
troubles.  These  were  things  to  be  spoken  of  warily : 
as  for  writing —  "  Whosoever,"  says  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
"  in  writing  a  modern  History,  shall  follow  truth  too 
near  the  heels,  it  may  haply  strike  out  his  teeth." 
Among  those  earlier  events  which  had  already,  in  the 
time  of  his  childhood,  passed  outside  the  heat  of  con- 
troversy, the  Wars  of  the  Roses  loomed  incomparably 
the  largest,  and  appealed  most  to  the  popular  imagina- 
tion. That  great  civil  strife  was  no  further  removed 
in  time  from  the  boyhood  of  Shakespeare  than  is  the 
battle  of  Trafalgar  from  the  children  of  to-day ;  and 
the  force  of  tradition  was  then  far  more  potent  than 
it  can  ever  be  in  an  age  of  primers.  It  was  still  the 
fashion,  in  winter's  tedious  nights,  to  sit  by  the  fire 
with  good  old  folks,  and  listen  to  their  tales 

Of  woful  ages  long  ago  betid. 

The  rivalry  of  the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster 
had  been  the  destroyer  of  mediaeval  England  and 
the  creator  and  upholder  of  the  Tudor  monarchy, 


ii.]  STRATFORD  AND  LONDON  41 

which  was  founded  on  the  memory  of  those  inter- 
necine horrors,  and  was  strengthened  by  the  fear 
of  their  recurrence.  To  prevent  another  disputed 
succession  England  was  willing  to  go  all  lengths, 
even  to  the  bringing  in  of  the  Stuart  dynasty.  Shake- 
speare's great  historical  epic  shows  a  familiarity  with 
the  struggle  in  all  its  phases  such  as  can  hardly 
have  been  acquired  solely  from  books.  This  was  the 
school  where  he  learned  his  politics;  by  this  light 
he  read  Koman  history,  and  interpreted  the  feuds  of 
Italian  cities.  The  moral,  which  he  is  never  tired 
of  repeating,  is  the  moral  of  the  chronicler  Hall; 
the  English  historical  plays  are  written  "  so  that  all 
men,  more  clearer  than  the  sun,  may  apparently 
perceive  that  as  by  discord  great  things  decay  and 
fall  to  ruin,  so  the  same  by  concord  be  revived  and 
erected."  The  Bastard  Faulconbridge,  in  his  triumph- 
ant peroration  at  the  close  of  King  John,  speaks  to 
the  same  effect ;  and  the  woful  prophecy  in  Richard  II, 
spoken  by  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle  at  the  very  beginning 
of  the  long  strife,  is  in  reality  a  retrospect  of  the 
miseries  that  were  not  yet  faded  from  the  memory  or 
forgotten  in  the  daily  talk  of  children's  children. 

Old  tradition  and  the  inhei*ent  probabilities  of  the 
case  agree  in  withdrawing  Shakespeare  from  school 
at  a  comparatively  early  age.  What  employment 
he  followed  when  he  left  school  we  cannot  certainly 
know.  Aubrey  reports,  on  good  authority,  that  he 
had  been  "  in  his  younger  years  a  schoolmaster  in  the 
country."  There  is  nothing  conclusive  to  be  said  against 
this ;  and  nothing  to  object  to  Aubrey's  other  state- 
ment that  "when  he  was  a  boy,  he  exercised  his 
father's  trade,  but  when  he  killed  a  calf,  he  would  do 
it  in  a  high  style,  and  make  a  speech."  Imaginative 
children   are  wont  to  decorate  many  a  less  worthy 


42  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

occasion  with  play-acting.  We  need  not  suppose  that 
he  found  employ  in  a  lawyer's  office.  He  certainly 
has  a  remarkable  knowledge  of  the  processes  and 
technicalities  of  the  law :  he  was  not  the  eldest  son 
of  his  father  for  nothing.  It  seems  almost  certain,' 
at  least,  that  these  years  were  passed  in  his  native 
place,  and  that 

While  other  men  of  slender  reputation 
Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out : 
Some  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there; 
Some  to  discover  islands  far  away  ; 
Some  to  the  studious  Universities  ; 

the  son  of  John  Shakespeare  was  still,  perhaps 
against  his  inclination,  a  home-keeping  youth.  But 
the  spirit  of  adventure  is  not  to  be  denied.  We 
are  the  sons  of  women ;  we  cannot  cross  the  cause 
why  we  are  born.  It  would  be  difficult  to  conceive 
of  Shakespeare  as  resting  content  with  the  beaten 
round,  and  rejecting  all  the  enticements  of  young 
blood.  "  I  would  there  were  no  age  between  ten 
and  three-and-twenty,"  says  the  Shepherd  in  Tlie 
Winter's  Tale,  "or  that  youth  would  sleep  out  the 
rest ;  for  there  is  nothing,  in  the  between,  but  getting 
wenches  with  child,  wronging  the  Ancientry,  stealing, 
fighting."  When  next  we  hear  of  Shakespeare,  in 
1582,  he  is  to  be  married,  not  without  circumstances 
of  irregularity  and  haste,  to  Anne  Hathaway,  a  woman 
some  eight  years  his  senior ;  six  months  thereafter 
his  eldest  child,  Susanna,  is  born  ;  in  1585  the  twins, 
Hamnet  and  Judith,  are  added  to  his  family;  about 
the  same  time,  or  not  much  later,  he  is  involved  in 
serious  trouble  with  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  the  chief  land- 
owner of  the  place,  and  leaves  Stratford  for  London, 
there  to  seek  his  fortune.     When  he  comes  into  notice 


ii.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  43 

again,  in  1592,  the  playwrights  of  the  London  stage  are 
already  beginning  to  rind  him  a  formidable  rival. 

The  early  traditions  are  agreed  in  attributing  the 
departure  from  Stratford  to  a  poaching  affray  and  its 
consequences.  He  was  "  much  given,"  says  one  early 
collector  of  gossip,  "to  all  unluckiness  in  stealing 
venison  and  rabbits."  Rowe,  in  his  Account  of  the 
Life  &c.  of  Mr.  William  Shakespear  (1709),  gives  a 
fuller  version  of  the  story.  Shakespeare  joined  with 
some  companions  in  robbing  a  park  that  belonged 
to  Sir  Thomas  Lucy ;  for  this  he  was  prosecuted,  and 
retorted  in  lampoons  with  such  effect  that  the  prose- 
cution was  redoubled,  and  he  was  driven  from  his 
home.  All  this  is  perfectly  credible ;  the  evidence 
that  remains  to  us  is  unanimous  in  its  favour ;  the 
allusions  in  the  plays  bear  it  out ;  and  there  is  no  solid 
argument  against  it.  Yet  some  antiquaries  of  the 
nineteenth  century  have  felt  free  to  reject  it,  and  to 
substitute  for  it  an  account  of  how  things  must  have 
happened.  If  we  follow  them  here,  we  must  reject 
the  whole  body  of  tradition ;  and  it  is  worth  remark- 
ing that  the  Shakespeare  traditions  which  have  come 
down  to  us  are,  in  the  main,  good  traditions.  They 
are  not  tainted  in  origin,  and  were  not  collected  or 
published  by  any  one  who  had  a  case  to  prove.  Most 
of  them  derive  from  one  or  other  of  two  sources :  the 
commonplaces  of  local  gossip  at  Stratford,  or  the 
stories  remembered  and  repeated  by  those  who  had  to 
do  with  the  theatre.  Shakespeare  in  his  later  years 
was  a  well-known  man  at  Stratford;  his  daughters 
passed  their  lives  there,  Susanna  dying  in  1649  and 
Judith  in  1662  ;  and  when  Betterton  made  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  place  in  order  to  collect  the  materials  which 
were  subsequently  used  by  Rowe,  there  must  have 
been  many  old  inhabitants  who  had  known  them  well. 


44  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

A  certain  John  Dowdall  talked  at  Stratford,  in  the 
year  1693,  with  an  old  parish  clerk  who  was  born 
some  years  before  Shakespeare  died,  and  who  told  him 
"  that  this  Shakespeare  was  formerly  in  this  town 
bound  apprentice  to  a  butcher,  but  that  he  ran  from 
his  master  to  London,  and  there  was  received  into  the 
play-house  as  a  servitor,  and  by  this  means  had  an 
opportunity  to  be  what  he  afterwards  proved.  He 
was  the  best  of  his  family."  The  tales  told  to  Aubrey 
by  the  aged  William  Beeston,  who  belonged  to  an  old- 
established  family  of  play-actors,  and  the  notes  made, 
not  later  than  1663,  by  the  Rev.  John  Ward,  Vicar  of 
Stratford,  are  no  less  deserving  of  belief ;  and  if  all 
these  accounts  be  compared,  they  display  no  serious 
inconsistencies.  It  is  the  very  vanity  of  scepticism  to 
set  all  these  aside  in  favour  of  a  tissue  of  learned 
fancies. 

The  stage-tradition  was  no  doubt  grievously  inter- 
rupted by  the  closing  of  the  theatres  and  the  dispersal 
of  the  actors  under  the  Long  Parliament.  Yet  though 
many  of  the  actors  died  fighting  for  the  King,  some  few 
survived  to  play  a  part  on  the  Restoration  stage ;  and 
Sir  William  Davenant,  who  in  his  boyhood  had  known 
Shakespeare,  and  in  his  early  manhood  had  been  inti- 
mate with  Shakespeare's  friends  and  fellows,  carried 
on  the  unbroken  line  of  theatrical  tradition.  When 
interest  in  the  life  of  Shakespeare  was  first  awakened, 
towards  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century,  there  was 
no  lay-figure  of  the  dramatist,  to  which  the  facts  must 
needs  be  fitted,  and  none  of  that  regard  for  his  supposed 
dignity,  which  has  been  allowed,  in  this  half-educated 
age  of  critical  theory,  to  distort  the  outlines  of  a  plain 
tale. 

Some  pieces  of  information  with  regard  to  the  plays 
come  to  us  casually  from  these  same  traditional  sources. 


ii.]  STRATFORD  AND  LONDON  45 

It  is  from  Dryden  we  learn  that  "  Shakespeare  showed 
the  best  of  his  skill  in  his  Mercutio  ;  and  he  said  him- 
self that  he  was  forced  to  kill  him  in  the  Third  Act,  to 
prevent  being  killed  by  him."  It  is  by  Dennis  we  are 
told  that  TJie  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  was  written  in 
fourteen  days  at  the  command  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
who  desired  to  see  Falstaff  in  love.  These  are  welcome 
additions  to  our  scanty  store,  and  they  fit  in  with  what 
we  know. 

In  London  Shakespeare  is  said  to  have  found  "  mean 
employment "  :  a  late  and  not  flawless  tradition  gives 
him  work  as  a  holder  of  horses  at  the  doors  of  the 
suburban  theatres.  He  must  have  rapidly  gained  a 
footing  within  the  theatre,  so  that  his  first  steps  to 
fortune  are  of  the  less  account.  Goldsmith,  who  hardly 
ever  mentioned  his  own  early  struggles,  once  made  a 
passing  allusion  to  the  days  when  he  lived  among  the 
beggars  in  Axe  Lane.  Those  days  were  days  fruitful 
to  him  in  experience  :  and  Shakespeare's  early  years 
in  London  must  have  been  alive  with  novelty  and 
excitement,  yielding  him  the  richest  part  of  his  harvest 
of  observation.  The  city  was  small,  and  not  much 
unlike  what  it  had  been  in  Chaucer's  day.  Its  main 
highway  of  traffic  was  still  to  be  found  where 

clear  and  sweet  and  strong, 
Thames'  stream,  scarce  fettered,  bore  the  bream  along 
Unto  the  bastioned  bridge,  its  only  chain. 

The  walls  held  the  city  compact ;  to  the  fields  immedi- 
ately beyond  them  the  people  resorted  for  pastime,  or 
crossed  the  river  to  Southwark,  there  to  see  bear- 
baiting  and  fencing.  Artillery  practice  was  carried 
on  in  a  field  enclosed  with  a  brick  wall  in  Bishopsgate 
Without.  In  these  same  liberties,  outside  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  the  Corporation,  two  theatres,  at  least,  had 


46  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

already  been  erected.  Within  the  walls,  though  the 
open  fields  surrounded  them,  a  motley  and  crowded 
population  struggled  and  surged.  Cheapside  was  as 
full  of  life  and  noise  as  it  is  to-day,  and  fuller 
of  diversity  of  colour  and  costume.  In  this  city 
Shakespeare  passed  his  dramatic  apprenticeship,  ever 
hungry  to  see  and  to  hear,  learning  his  craft,  making 
acquaintance,  as  he  began  to  feel  his  feet  under  him, 
with  the  life  of  the  town,  comparing  notes,  it  may 
be,  with  fellow-poets  and  fellow-adventurers  whose 
names  have  long  since  sunk  into  oblivion,  working  at 
the  odd  jobs  given  him  by  the  theatrical  companies, 
dining  at  the  ordinary  of  the  taverns,  gazing  on 
courtly  processions  and  spectacles,  seeing  new  types 
of  character  and  hearing  new  stories  day  by  day.  In 
the  life  of  every  artist  there  are  certain  golden  years 
when  the  soul  is  pliable,  years  of  exultant  discovery 
and  unfailing  response  to  new  impressions.  Later  in 
life,  when  self-assurance  and  stability  have  come  with 
success,  a  man  may  keep  all  his  energy,  and  may 
better  his  craftsmanship,  or  middle  age  would  be  a 
tedious  mockery ;  but  the  magic  of  freshness  and 
adventure  is  gone  beyond  recall.  During  these  crucial 
years,  when  the  world  flows  in  upon  the  mind,  Shake- 
speare's takings  were  enormous  at  Stratford  and  in 
London.  We  cannot  trace  the  history  of  his  experi- 
ence ;  and  Elizabethan  society  is  known  to  us  chiefly 
through  his  works,  so  that  we  are  at  a  disadvantage 
if  we  try  to  check  the  picture  by  the  original.  In  his 
plays  he  took  a  story  from  anywhere,  and  gave  his 
characters  Italian  or  French  or  Roman  names.  But 
for  realism  and  vitality  he  was  dependent  on  his 
observation  of  the  life  around  him.  Anachronism 
was  nothing  to  him ;  verisimilitude  everything.  He 
did  not  travel  to  collect  "  local  colour."     One  house- 


ii.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  47 

hold  is  enough,  says  Juvenal,  for  him  who  wishes  to 
study  the  habits  of  the  human  race  ;  and  Shakespeare 
was  satisfied  with  the  household  of  his  own  people. 
There  are  clocks  in  Julius  Ccesar ;  a  paper-mill  and 
printing  in  Henry  VI ;  Italian  fashions  in  Cymbeline ; 
indeed,  except  in  the  Eoman  plays,  Shakespeare  takes 
leave  to  fill  in  all  the  movement  and  detail  of  the  play 
from  his  own  world. 

A  few  illustrations  will  serve  to  show  how  the  in- 
cidents and  characters  of  his  plays  were  gathered 
from  the  life  around  him.  Harrison,  in  the  Descrip- 
tion of  England  added  to  Holinshed's  Chronicles,  gives 
an  exact  account  of  the  usual  method  of  highway 
robberies.  "  Seldom,"  he  says,  "  are  any  wayfaring 
men  robbed  without  the  consent  of  the  chamberlain, 
tapster,  or  ostler  where  they  bait  and  lie,  who,  feeling 
at  their  alighting  whether  their  capcases  or  budgets 
be  of  any  weight  or  not,  do  by-and-by  give  intimation 
to  some  one  or  other  attendant  daily  in  the  yard  or 
house,  or  dwelling  hard  by,  whether  the  prey  be  worth 
the  following  or  no.  If  it  be  for  their  turn,  then  the 
gentleman  peradventure  is  asked  which  way  he  trav- 
elleth,  and  whether  it  please  him  to  have  another 
guest  to  bear  him  company  at  supper,  who  rideth 
the  same  way  in  the  morning  that  he  doth,  or  not. 
And  thus  if  he  admit  him,  or  be  glad  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, the  cheat  is  half  wrought.  .  .  .  And  these  are 
some  of  the  policies  of  such  shrews  or  close-booted 
gentlemen  as  lie  in  wait  for  fat  booties  by  the  high- 
ways, and  which  are  most  commonly  practised  in  the 
winter  season,  about  the  feast  of  Christmas,  when 
serving-men  and  unthrifty  gentlemen  want  money  to 
play  at  the  dice  and  cards."  This  was  the  method 
of  the  famous  robbery  in  Henry  IV  In  the  dark 
inn-yard  at  Rochester,  Gadshill  is  found  in  earnest 


48  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

conversation  with  the  chamberlain  of  the  inn,  who 
tells  him  of  the  Kentish  franklin  and  his  three 
hundred  marks  in  gold ;  while  the  unthrifty  gentle- 
men (one  of  whom  is  fat,  and  grows  old)  lie  in  wait 
by  the  roadside  till  news  is  brought  them  by  their 
faithful  "setter." 

In  another  passage  of  his  book  Harrison  describes 
the  dealings  of  persons  of  fashion  with  their  tailor. 
"  How  curious,  how  nice  also,  are  a  number  of  men 
and  women,  and  how  hardly  can  the  tailor  please  them 
in  making  it  fit  for  their  bodies  !  How  many  times 
must  it  be  sent  back  again  to  him  that  made  it !  What 
chafing,  what  fretting,  what  reproachful  language,  doth 
the  poor  workman  bear  away ! "  Such  was  the  fact 
as  it  was  observed  by  William  Harrison,  —  as  it  was 
observed  also  by  William  Shakespeare,  and  imagina- 
tively presented,  with  all  colloquial  vivacity,  in  the 
scene  between  Petruchio  and  the  tailor. 

The  character  of  Dogberry,  says  Aubrey,  was 
studied  from  a  live  original.  "The  humour  of  the 
constable  in  a  Midsummer's  Night's  Dream  "  (Aubrey 
was  no  sure  guide  among  the  plays)  "  he  happened 
to  take  at  Grendon  in  Bucks,  which  is  the  road  from 
London  to  Stratford,  and  there  was  living  that  con- 
stable about  1642,  when  I  first  came  to  Oxon."  How- 
ever this  may  be,  that  constable  was  living  in  many 
another  place,  and  was  adorned,  not  created,  by 
Shakespeare's  imagination.  There  is  extant  a  letter, 
dated  1586,  from  Lord  Burghley  to  Sir  Francis 
Walsingham,  complaining  of  the  absurd  behaviour 
of  the  persons  appointed  to  arrest  the  conspirators 
in  Babington's  plot.  Burghley  tells  how  he  was 
travelling  from  London  to  Theobalds  in  his  coach, 
and  noticed  at  every  town's  end  some  ten  or  twelve 
men  standing   conspicuously,  in  groups,  armed  with 


ii.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  49 

long  staves.  They  stood  under  penthouses,  and  he 
conceived  them  to  be  avoiding  the  rain,  or  waiting 
to  drink  at  an  alehouse.  But  coining  upon  a  dozen 
at  Enfield,  where  there  was  no  rain,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  these  were  the  watchmen  appointed  to 
waylay  and  arrest  the  conspirators  against  the  life 
of  the  Queen.  "  Thereupon/'  he  says,  "I  called  some 
of  them  to  me  apart,  and  asked  them  wherefore  they 
stood  there.  And  one  of  them  answered,  'To  take 
three  young  men.'  And  demanding  how  they  should 
know  the  persons,  one  answered  with  these  words : 
'Marry,  my  lord,  by  intelligence  of  their  favour.' 
'  "What  mean  you  by  that  ? '  quoth  I.  '  Marry,'  said 
they,  '  one  of  the  parties  hath  a  hooked  nose.'  '  And 
have  you,'  quoth  I,  'no  other  mark?'  'No,'  saith 
they.  And  then  I  asked  who  appointed  them ;  and 
they  answered  one  Bankes,  a  Head  Constable,  whom 
I  willed  to  be  sent  to  me." 

The  tricks  of  the  sharpers  and  thieves  of  London 
are  minutely  described  by  Greene  in  his  inimitable 
pamphlets.  TJie  Second  Part  of  Connie-Catching  (1591) 
tells  a  story,  newly  reported  to  Greene  while  he  was 
writing,  of  a  trick  put  upon  a  country  farmer,  in 
the  walks  of  St.  Paul's,  by  a  company  of  foists,  or 
cut-purses.  The  farmer  kept  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
and  his  purse  in  his  hand,  so  that  it  was  impossible 
to  do  any  good  with  him,  whether  by  jostling  him,  or 
claiming  acquaintance  and  offering  to  shake  him  by 
the  hand.  Then  two  of  the  foists  concocted  a  plan, 
and  one  of  them  "  went  to  the  farmer  and  walked 
directly  before  him,  and  next  him,  three  or  four 
turns :  at  last,  standing  still,  he  cried,  '  Alas,  honest 
man,  help  me,  I  am  not  well ! '  and  with  that  sunk 
down  suddenly  in  a  swoon.  The  poor  farmer,  seeing 
a  proper  young  gentleman,  as  he  thought,  fall  dead 

E 


50  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

afore  him,  stepped  to  him,  held  him  in  his  arms, 
rubbed  him  and  chafed  him  ;  at  this  there  gathered 
a  great  multitude  of  people  about  him  ;  and  the  whilst 
the  foist  drew  the  farmer's  purse  and  away."  This  is 
the  identical  trick  put  upon  the  clown  by  Autolycus, 
who,  being  a  doctor  of  the  mystery,  scorns  the  aid 
of  an  accomplice,  and  carries  out  his  purpose  single- 
handed,  with  many  refinements  of  humorous  audacity. 
Even  Falstaff,  though  he  is  of  Shakespeare's  making, 
was  not  made  out  of  nothing.  It  is  vain  and  foolish 
to  seek  for  a  single  original,  whether  in  the  dramatist, 
Henry  Chettle,  "  sweating  and  blowing  by  reason  of 
his  fatness,"  or  in  any  of  his  contemporaries.  We 
may  boldly  say  of  Falstaff,  as  another  of  Shake- 
speare's highest  creations  says  of  himself,  "  There  is 
no  such  man  :  it  is  impossible."  So  illimitable  a  body 
of  vitality,  steeped  in  so  much  wit,  is  not  in  Nature ; 
and  if  it  were,  a  great  dramatist  does  not  work  in  ser- 
vile fashion  from  individual  models.  But  Falstaff  is 
pure  Elizabethan;  and  here  and  there  in  the  all  too 
scanty  human  records  of  that  time  we  meet  with  a 
comic  exploit  that  seems  to  remind  us  of  our  old  friend, 
or  are  caught  by  a  trick  of  speech  that  comes  to  us  with 
a  strangely  familiar  ring.  Falstaff  was  never  at  the 
end  of  his  resources  ;  and  if  he  had  chosen  to  inveigh 
against  his  own  manner  of  life,  not  without  some 
sidelong  depreciation  of  his  companions,  might  he  not 
have  spoken  after  this  fashion  :  "  Now,  Lord  !  what  a 
man  is  he ;  he  was  not  ashamed,  being  a  Gentleman, 
yea,  a  man  of  good  years,  and  much  authority,  and 
the  head  Officer  of  a  Duke's  house,  to  play  at  Dice 
in  an  Ale  house  with  boys,  bawds  and  varlets.  It  had 
been  a  great  fault  to  play  at  so  vile  a  game  among 
such  vile  persons,  being  no  Gentleman,  being  no  Officer, 
being   not   of  such   years;  but  being  both  a  man  of 


ii.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  51 

fair  lands,  of  an  ancient  house,  of  great  authority,  an 
Officer  of  a  Duke,  yea,  and  to  such  a  Duke,  and  a  man 
of  such  years  that  his  white  hairs  should  warn  him  to 
avoid  all  such  folly,  to  play  at  such  a  game  with  such 
Koysters  and  such  Varlets,  yea,  and  that  in  such  an 
house  as  none  comes  thither  but  Thieves,  Bawds,  and 
Ruffians;  now  before  God,  I  cannot  speak  shame 
enough  on  him  "  ?  This  speech,  which  is  given  as  an 
example  in  Thomas  Wilson's  Art  of  Rhetoric  (1553), 
has  not  Falstaff's  wit,  but  it  has  the  rhetorical  syntax 
which  he  borrows  when  he  rides  the  high  horse.  And 
something  of  his  wit,  too,  was  to  be  found  among  the 
knights  of  the  road.  Thomas  Harman,  the  Kentish 
Justice  of  the  Peace,  tells  of  an  adventure  that  befell 
an  old  man,  a  tenant  of  his  own,  who  was  wont  to  go 
marketing  twice  a  week  to  London.  On  one  of  these 
journeys  this  old  man  overtook  two  "  rufflers,"  or 
broken  soldiers  of  fortune  who  had  taken  to  the  high- 
way, riding  together  quietly,  the  one  carrying  the 
other's  cloak,  like  master  and  man.  They  talked 
pleasantly  with  him  till  they  came  to  a  lonely  part  of 
the  road;  then  they  led  his  horse  into  a  wood  and 
asked  him  how  much  money  he  had  in  his  purse.  He 
confessed  that  he  had  just  seven  shillings.  But  when 
the  robbers  came  to  search,  they  found,  besides  the 
seven  shillings,  an  angel  which  the  old  man  had  charged 
his  wife  to  keep  safely  for  him,  but  she  had  forgotten 
it,  and  left  it  in  his  purse.  Then  the  gentleman-thief 
began  to  bless  himself,  saying,  "  Good  Lord,  what  a 
world  is  this  !  How  may  a  man  believe  or  trust  in  the 
same  ?  See  you  not,"  quoth  he,  "  this  old  knave  told 
me  that  he  had  but  seven  shillings;  and  here  is  more 
by  an  angel.  What  an  old  knave  and  a  false  knave 
have  we  here,"  quoth  this  ruffler ;  "Our  Lord  have 
mercy  on  us,  will  this  world  never  be  better  ?  "  —  and 


52  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

with  that  they  went  their  way.  This  speech  is  in  the 
very  vein  of  Falstaff ;  it  was  spoken  near  Shooter's  Hill, 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Blackheath,  about  1560  a.d. 

Illustrations  of  this  kind  are  not  beside  the  mark. 
Shakespeare  lived  in  an  age  of  glitter  and  pageantry, 
of  squalor  and  wickedness,  of  the  lust  of  the  eye  and 
the  pride  of  life,  —  an  age  of  prodigality,  adventure, 
bravery,  and  excess.  All  this  life  has  passed,  leaving 
us  a  heap  of  dusty  legal  documents,  and  a  small  library 
of  books,  written,  for  the  most  part,  by  quiet  students 
who  took  refuge  in  literature  from  the  rush  and  turmoil 
of  the  age.  We  make  much  of  the  books,  and  patiently 
search  them  through  and  through  for  the  genesis  of 
Shakespeare's  ideas.  But  the  secret  is  not  to  be  found 
among  these  deposits:  the  life  that  surrounded  him 
has  vanished;  the  stream  of  movement  has  ceased; 
and  we  are  left  raking  for  chance  memorials  in  the  dried 
and  deserted  channel. 

The  plays  give  abundant  evidence  of  his  knowledge 
of  the  town.  Tavern-life  counted  for  much  in  that 
day.  At  inns  or  taverns  a  newly  arrived  stranger  would 
pick  up  his  earliest  acquaintance;  and  later,  would 
meet  the  company  of  his  friends.  In  TJie  Taming  of  the 
Shrew  the  disguised  pedant  claims  acquaintance  with 
Baptista  on  the  ground  that  twenty  years  agone  they 
had  been  fellow-lodgers  at  the  Pegasus  in  Genoa.  The 
sea-captain  in  Twelfth  Night  lodges  "in  the  south 
suburbs,  at  the  Elephant."  In  TJte  Comedy  of  Errors 
there  are  many  inns  —  the  Centaur,  the  Tiger,  and  the 
Porpentine.  Of  London  taverns,  the  Boar's  Head  in 
East  Cheap  has  been  made  famous  for  ever  by  the 
patronage  of  Falstaff  and  his  crew;  as  the  Mermaid 
was  famous  for  the  club  of  wits,  established  by  Raleigh 
and  Marlowe,  honoured  by  Shakespeare,  and  super- 
seded by  the  later  gatherings  in  the  Apollo  room  of 


ii.]  STRATFORD  AND  LONDON  63 

the  Devil  Tavern,  where  Ben  Jonson  presided.  In 
that  age  of  symbol  and  emblem  private  houses  and 
shops  bore  a  sign,  which  might  either  serve  as  a  proper 
name,  to  identify  the  house,  or  might  indicate  the 
business  of  the  tenant.  Benedick,  in  Much  Ado,  speaks 
of  the  sign  of  blind  Cupid  "  at  the  door  of  a  brothel- 
house."  An  allusion  to  this  sign  enhances  the  force 
of  King  Lear's  speech,  when,  in  his  terrible  passion 
against  the  generation  of  mankind,  he  says  to  Gloucester, 
"  Dost  thou  squiny  at  me  ?  No,  do  thy  worst,  blind 
Cupid ;  I'll  not  love."  Measure  for  Measure,  and  the 
Fourth  Act  of  Pericles  (which  no  pen  but  his  could  have 
written),  prove  Shakespeare's  acquaintance  with  the 
darker  side  of  the  life  of  the  town,  as  it  might  be  seen 
in  Pickt-hatch  or  the  Bankside.  He  does  not  fear  to 
expose  the  purest  of  his  heroines  to  the  breath  of  this 
infection ;  their  virtue  is  not  ignorance ;  "'tis  in  grain  : 
'twill  endure  wind  and  weather."  In  nothing  is  he 
more  himself  than  in  the  little  care  that  he  takes  to 
provide  shelter  for  the  most  delicate  characters  of 
English  fiction.  They  owe  their  education  to  the 
larger  world,  not  to  the  drawing-room.  Even  Miranda, 
who  is  more  tenderly  guarded  than  Isabella  or  Marina, 
is  not  the  pretty  simpleton  that  some  later  renderings 
have  made  of  her ;  when  Prospero  speaks  of  the 
usurping  Duke  as  being  no  true  brother  to  him,  she 
replies  composedly : 

I  should  sin 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother: 

Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  sons. 

Shakespeare's  heroines  are  open-eyed ;  therein  resem- 
bling himself,  who  turned  away  from  nothing  that 
bears  the  human  image.  He  knew  those  "  strong 
houses  of  sorrow,"  the  prisons  of  London  —  as  indeed 
they  were  easy  to  be  known  when  Master  Caper,  or 


64  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

any  other  ill-starred  young  man,  might  find  himself 
inside  one  of  them,  at  the  instance  of  a  usurer,  "  for 
a  commodity  of  brown  paper  and  old  ginger."  lie 
marked  the  fashions  of  the  youth;  the  gallants  and 
military  adventurers, 

Rash,  inconsiderate,  fiery  voluntaries, 

With  ladies'  faces,  and  fierce  dragons'  spleen  ; 

the  demure  and  peace-loving  young  gentlemen,  "  lisp- 
ing hawthorn-buds,  that  come  like  women  in  men's 
apparel,  and  smell  like  Bucklersbury  in  simple-time ; " 
and  those  more  hardened  fortune-seekers  who  were 
waiting  in  the  river-side  resorts  for  a  chance  to  put  to 
sea,  "  that  their  business  might  be  everything,  and 
their  intent  everywhere."  He  watched  with  gently 
critical  humour  the  goings  and  comings  of  the  "douce 
folk  that  lived  by  rule,"  the  sober  tradespeople  of 
the  City,  who,  with  their  wives  and  daughters,  were 
puritanically  given,  and  shunned  the  theatre.  He 
touches  on  Puritanism,  from  time  to  time,  with  the 
lightest  of  hands,  but  not  so  lightly  as  to  leave  any 
room  for  mistake.  This  people,  who  sang  psalms  to 
hornpipe  tunes,  and  were  willing  to  make  trading 
profits  out  of  the  theatre  which  they  condemned,  had 
no  enemy  in  Shakespeare;  but  he  knows  them,  and 
knows  their  besetting  weaknesses,  and  smiles.  Their 
preciseness  of  speech  appears  in  Parolles,  who,  when 
he  is  told  that  his  lord  and  master  is  married,  answers 
with  a  pious  reservation  —  "He  is  my  good  Lord; 
whom  I  serve  above  is  my  Master."  The  audience  at 
the  Globe  Theatre  in  the  suburb  of  the  Bankside 
understood  the  allusion  very  well  when  the  clown,  in 
Measure  for  Measure,  announces  that  all  houses  of  ill- 
repute  in  the  suburbs  of  Vienna  must  be  plucked  down ; 
as  for  those  in  the  city,  "  they  shall  stand  for  seed : 


II.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  55 

they  had  gone  down  too,  but  that  a  wise  burgher  put 
in  for  them."  From  the  high-priest  of  Baal,  Master 
William  Shakespeare,  his  precise  brethren  might  have 
had  that  "  schooling  in  the  pleasures "  which  they 
most  needed ;  they  might  have  learnt  that  "  though 
Honesty  be  no  Puritan,  yet  it  will  do  no  hurt.''  But 
they  denied  themselves  the  opportunity. 

After  some  years  of  life  and  work  as  an  obscure 
adventurer,  Shakespeare  emerged  from  the  ranks,  and 
set  his  foot  firmly  on  the  ladder  of  fame.  The  great 
and  immediate  success  of  his  Venus  and  Adonis  (1593), 
which  he  dedicated  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton, 
was  in  all  likelihood  the  beginning  of  his  good  for- 
tune. Plays  had  no  patrons  save  the  managers  and 
the  public  ;  a  poem,  if  it  found  acceptance,  might  win 
for  its  author  admission  to  the  society  of  men  of  rank 
and  influence.  !Not  long  after  this  we  hear  of  Shake- 
speare acting  at  Greenwich  Palace  before  the  Queen ; 
and  thenceforward  he  probably  found  easy  access  to 
the  highest  courtly  circles,  and  observed  them  as 
closely  as  he  had  observed  the  life  of  the  streets.  He 
sees  the  problem  of  government  from  many  points  of 
view,  but  most  readily  and  habitually  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  ruling  classes.  Royalty  was  gracious 
to  him.     Ben  Jonson  speaks  of 

those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James  ; 

and  there  are  many  indications  and  traditions  of  the 
favour  that  he  enjoyed  under  both  monarchs.  He  did 
not  disdain  to  play  the  courtier.  He  celebrated  the 
praises  of  both  his  sovereigns,  choosing  for  commenda- 
tion those  gifts  and  graces  on  which  they  most  prided 
themselves.  Elizabeth  is  praised  for  her  virgin  estate  ; 
James  for  his    supernatural  powers    of   healing,  and 


56  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

his  strange  gift  of  prophecy.  TJie  Merry  Wives 
was  written  out  of  compliment  to  the  one ;  the 
subject  of  Macbeth  was  probably  chosen  to  gratify 
the  other.  Of  the  nobility,  we  may  infer  that  Shake- 
speare was  in  friendly  personal  relations  with  South- 
ampton, who  is  said  to  have  given  him  a  thousand 
pounds  "  to  enable  him  to  go  through  with  a  purchase 
which  he  heard  he  had  a  mind  to  " ;  with  Essex,  who 
is  lauded  in  Henry  V.  ;  and  with  the  "  incomparable 
pair  of  brethren,"  William,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  and 
Philip,  Earl  of  Montgomery,  to  whom  the  First  Folio 
is  dedicated  in  recognition  of  the  favour  they  had 
shown  to  the  author  when  living.  Some  of  the  plays 
—  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  TheTempest,  Cymbeline, 
Henry  VIII-  —  were  obviously  performed  on  special 
courtly  occasions ;  those  that  include  a  masque  could 
not  have  been  presented  with  due  elaboration  on  the 
public  stage.  All  that  we  know  testifies  to  Shake- 
speare's familiarity  with  the  life  of  the  Court  ;  he  had 
been  present  at  state  ceremonies,  when  great  clerks 
greeted  Royalty  with  premeditated  welcomes,  which 
broke  down  under  the  weight  of  the  occasion;  he 
delighted  in  that  quickness  of  witty  retort  which  was 
cultivated  in  courtly  speech,  and  in  that  graciousness 
and  urbanity  of  bearing  which  is  sometimes  found  in 
his  princely  men,  and  always  in  his  great  ladies.  In 
Love's  Labour's  Lost  the  Princess,  and  the  Princess  alone, 
is  considerate  and  kindly  to  "  poor  Maccabaeus  "  and 
"  brave  Hector  " ;  in  Twelfth  Night  the  Countess  Olivia 
treats  her  drunken  kinsman  and  his  foolish  friend  with 
a  certain  charming  protective  care,  and  attends  to 
Malvolio's  wrongs  before  quietly  accepting,  for  herself, 
the  hand  of  Sebastian. 

Of  the  incidents  of  his  life  in  London  nothing  is 
known.     One  anecdote,  belonging  to  the  earlier  years 


ii.]  STRATFORD  AND   LONDON  57 

of  that  life,  is  recorded — just  such  an  anecdote  as 
young  law-students  might  be  expected  to  tell  of  a 
popular  actor-manager,  and  not  deserving  repetition, 
were  it  not  the  single  piece  of  gossip  concerning 
Shakespeare  Avhich  was  set  down  on  paper  during  his 
residence  in  London  and  has  survived.  The  Diary  of 
John  Manningham,  barrister-at-law,  tells,  under  the 
year  1601,  how,  once  upon  a  time,  a  City  dame,  infatu- 
ated with  Burbage  in  the  part  of  Richard  III.,  made  an 
assignation  with  him  for  the  evening.  Shakespeare, 
overhearing  their  conversation,  was  beforehand  with 
Burbage,  and  was  kindly  entertained.  "Then  message 
being  brought  that  Richard  the  Third  was  at  the  door, 
Shakespeare  caused  return  to  be  made  that  William 
the  Conqueror  was  before  Richard  the  Third.''  Of  a 
quarter  of  a  century  of  life  and  experience  this  one 
small  doubtful  jest  is  all  that  has  been  chronicled  ;  and 
Hamlet  may  point  the  moral. 

From  the  evidence  of  the  plays  it  has  been  argued 
that  Shakespeare  must  have  travelled.  Doubtless  he 
often  went  with  his  company  of  actors  on  their 
summer  tours  among  provincial  towns.  It  is  unlikely 
that  he  ever  crossed  the  Channel,  or  visited  Scotland. 
Certain  of  his  allusions,  in  Hamlet  and  the  Italian 
plays,  show  some  detailed  local  knowledge  of  Elsinore 
and  of  Italy.  The  name  Gobbo,  for  instance,  which 
he  gives  to  the  clown  in  TJie  Merchant  of  Venice,  is  the 
name  of  an  ancient  stone  in  the  market-place  of  that 
city ;  and  when  he  speaks  of  the  common  ferry  as 
"the  tranect,"  the  word  seems  to  be  a  mistaken  or 
misprinted  adaptation  of  the  Italian  word  traghetto. 
But  this  is  nothing :  Venice,  in  her  ancient  glory, 
attracted  crowds  of  travellers ;  and,  without  troubling 
himself  to  put  a  question,  Shakespeare  must  have 
heard   innumerable   stories  and  memories  from  that 


58  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

centre  of  life  and  commerce.  In  this  age  of  cheap 
printed  information  we  are  too  apt  to  forget  how 
large  a  part  of  his  knowledge  he  must  have  gathered 
in  talk.  Books  were  licensed  and  guarded;  but  in 
talk  there  was  free  trade.  He  must  often  have 
listened  to  tales,  like  those  told  by  Othello,  of  the 
wonders  of  the  New  World.  He  must  often  have 
seen  the  affected  traveller,  described  in  King  John, 
dallying  with  his  tooth-pick  at  a  great  man's  table, 
full  of  elaborate  compliment, 

And  talking  of  the  Alps  and  Apennines, 
The  Pyrenean  and  the  river  Po. 

The  knowledge  that  he  gained  from  such  talk,  if 
it  was  sometimes  remote  and  curious,  was  neither 
systematic  nor  accurate ;  and  this  is  the  knowledge 
reflected  in  the  plays. 

Through  all  the  years  of  his  strenuous  life  in 
London  his  affections  were  still  constant  to  the  place 
of  his  birth,  which  seems  to  have  remained  the  home 
of  his  family.  When  money  came  to  him,  it  was 
spent  on  acquiring  property  at  Stratford.  In  1597 
he  bought  and  repaired  New  Place,  the  stateliest 
house  in  the  town,  and  to  this  he  added  from  time  to 
time  by  large  purchases  of  arable  land,  pasture  land, 
and  tithes.  "  He  was  wont,"  says  Aubrey,  "  to  go  to 
his  native  country  once  a  year."  "  He  frequented  the 
plays  all  his  younger  time,"  says  Ward,  "  but  in  his 
elder  days  lived  at  Stratford,  and  supplied  the  stage 
with  two  plays  every  year,  and  for  that  had  an  allow- 
ance so  large  that  he  spent  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand 
a  year,  as  I  have  heard."  For  many  years  before 
he  retired  he  was  probably  much  at  Stratford,  and 
his  greatest  plays,  Othello,  King  Lear,  Macbeth,  and 
others,    were   probably    written    during  the    summer 


II.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  59 

season  at  New  Place,  as  they  were  certainly  acted  on 
the  boards  of  the  Globe  Theatre  in  Southwark.  The 
parish  register  of  Stratford  has  preserved  for  us  the 
record  of  some  of  the  chief  events  of  his  private  life. 
In  1596  his  only  son,  Hamnet,  died  ;  and  those  who 
seek  in  the  plays  for  a  reflection  of  his  personal  history 
are  perhaps  justified  in  finding  some  shadow  of  his 
sorrow  expressed  in  the  pathetic  fate  of  Arthur  and 
the  passionate  grief  of  Constance,  in  King  John.  In 
1607  his  eldest  daughter,  Susanna,  was  married  to 
John  Hall,  a  doctor  of  medicine;  in  the  following 
year  his  mother  died.  During  the  last  three  or  four 
years  of  his  life  he  is  reported  to  have  lived  wholly 
at  Stratford,  in  retirement ;  on  the  10th  of  February, 
1616,  his  daughter  Judith  was  married  to  Thomas 
Quiney,  vintner ;  on  the  2oth  of  March  he  signed  his 
will ;  on  the  23rd  of  April  he  died,  and  was  buried  in 
the  chancel  of  Stratford  Church. 

His  will  makes  a  fairly  regular  and  normal  dis- 
position of  his  property  among  his  family  and  kins- 
folk. The  only  professional  friends  mentioned  are  his 
"  fellows,"  John  Heminge,  Richard  Burbage,and  Henry 
Condell,  who  receive  twenty-six  shillings  and  eight- 
pence  apiece  to  buy  them  rings.  Of  these  Richard 
Burbage  was  the  actor  of  the  great  tragic  parts  in  the 
plays ;  the  other  two  were  subsequently  the  editors  of 
the  first  collected  edition.  The  affectionate  bequest  to 
them  in  the  will,  taken  in  connection  with  their  own 
statements  in  the  preface  to  the  Folio  of  1623,  gives 
them  high  authority  as  editors  ;  even  though  their 
work  is  deformed,  in  parts,  by  serious  blunders.  A 
legitimate  inference  from  the  recorded  facts,  and  from 
the  strangely  varying  merits  of  the  texts  of  the  several 
plays,  as  printed  in  the  Folio,  is  that  Shakespeare 
before  his  death  had  begun  to  make  preparations  for 


60  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

a  collected  edition.  Some  few  plays  he  probably  had 
by  him  in  autograph;  some  he  had  scored  and  cor- 
rected on  playhouse  transcripts  or  on  the  faulty 
quarto  copies  which  had  been  printed  during  his  life- 
time ;  many  others  had  received  no  revision  at  his 
hands.  The  collection  of  his  dramatic  "  papers,"  such 
as  it  was,  passed  into  the  care  of  Hemiuge  and  Condell ; 
and  they  discharged  their  trust.  Where  the  Folio 
differs  materially  from  earlier  quarto  versions,  the 
taste  of  modern  editors  may  prefer  the  one  or  the 
other,  but  there  can  be  no  question  which  comes  to 
us  with  the  higher  authority.  The  earlier  editions 
preserve  many  passages,  undoubtedly  by  Shakespeare, 
which  are  omitted  in  the  Folio ;  but  Shakespeare  was 
first  of  all  a  playwright,  and  the  omissions  often 
improve  the  play.  Most  modern  editions  include  all 
the  matter  which  was  omitted  in  the  Folio,  and  retain 
all  the  matter  which  made  its  first  appearance  there. 
This  plan  has  advantages,  especially  for  those  who 
make  use  of  Shakespeare's  work  as  a  lexicon  of  speeches 
and  sentiments.  But  it  has  one  grave  disadvantage ; 
it  presents  us  with  some  of  the  plays  in  a  form  which 
was  not,  and  cannot  have  been,  authorised  by  Shake- 
speare at  any  time  in  his  career.  There  is  no  escape 
from  the  Folio :  for  twenty  of  the  plays  it  is  our  sole 
authority;  for  most  of  the  remainder  it  is  the  best 
authority  that  we  shall  ever  know. 

In  the  latest  plays  the  country  life  of  Stratford  re- 
asserts itself.  After  all  our  martial  and  political 
adventures,  our  long-drawn  passions  and  deadly  sor- 
rows, we  are  back  in  Perdita's  flower-garden,  and 
join  in  the  festivities  of  a  sheep-shearing.  A  new 
type  of  character  meets  us  in  these  plays ;  a  girl, 
innocent,  frank,  dutiful,  and  wise,  cherished  and 
watched  over  by  her  devoted  father,  or  restored  to  him 


ii.]  STRATFORD   AND   LONDON  61 

after  long  separation.  It  is  impossible  to  escape  the 
thought  that  we  are  indebted  to  Judith  Shakespeare 
for  something  of  the  beauty  and  simplicity  which 
appear  in  Miranda  and  Perdita,  and  in  the  earlier 
sketch  of  Marina.  In  his  will  Shakespeare  bequeaths 
to  Judith  a  "broad  silver-gilt  bowl,"  —  doubtless  the 
bride-cup  that  was  used  at  her  wedding.  There  were 
many  other  girls  within  reach  of  his  observation,  but 
(such  are  the  limitations  of  humanity)  there  were  few 
so  likely  as  his  own  daughter  to  exercise  him  in  dis- 
interested sympathy  and  insight,  or  to  touch  him  with 
a  sense  of  the  pathos  of  youth. 

These  speculations  may  very  easily  be  carried  too 
far ;  and  they  bring  with  them  this  danger,  that 
prosaic  minds  take  them  for  a  key  to  the  plays,  and 
translate  the  most  exquisite  works  of  imagination 
into  dull  chronicles  and  gossip.  Perhaps  we  do  best 
to  abide  by  the  bare  facts,  and  the  straightforward 
tale  that  they  tell.  So  great  is  the  power  of  Shake- 
speare's name  to  stimulate  unbridled  curiosity  that 
whole  volumes  have  been  filled  with  the  discussion 
of  questions  which,  even  if  he  were  now  alive,  we 
could  not  answer.  What  was  his  religious  creed? 
He  was  baptized,  and  had  his  children  baptized,  accord- 
ing to  the  rites  of  the  Church  of  England.  Was  he 
happily  married  ?  If  he  had  lived  in  a  town  of  a 
hundred  newspapers,  all  treasured  and  consulted, 
there  would  still  be  no  evidence  to  satisfy  us  on  this 
point.  The  broad  outlines  of  his  life  are  not  obscure. 
He  went  to  London  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  when 
he  had  found  it  there,  returned  to  Stratford,  and 
established  himself  with  his  wife  and  family  in  peace 
and  prosperity.  It  is  as  simple  as  a  fairy-tale.  If  we 
must  needs  look  closer,  and  read  the  plays  into  the 
life,  there  is  nothing  to  alter  in  the  story.     We  know 


62  SHAKESPEARE  [chap.  ii. 

that  he  went  through  deep  waters,  no  man  deeper, 
and  came  out  on  the  other  side.  The  simple  pieties 
of  life  were  at  all  times  dearest  to  him.  He  was 
never  uprooted  from  the  place  of  his  nativity,  nor 
deceived  by  the  spirits  of  his  own  raising.  His 
attachment  to  his  birthplace,  his  family,  and  his  early 
friends  might  be  fairly  expressed  in  the  subtle  meta- 
phor of  the  greatest  of  his  younger  contemporaries  — ■ 
a  metaphor  in  which  he  would  have  found  nothing 
extravagant  or  absurd.  The  vast  circle  of  his  experi- 
ence was  kept  true  by  the  stability  of  his  first  affec- 
tions, as  the  motion  of  a  pair  of  compasses  is  controlled 
from  the  fixed  centre. 

Such  wilt  thou  be  to  me,  who  must 
Like  th'  other  foot  obliquely  run. 
Thy  firmness  makes  my  circle  just, 
And  makes  me  end  where  I  begun. 


CHAPTER  III 

BOOKS    AND    POETRY 

It  is  safe  to  assert  that  Shakespeare  was  a  poet  before 
he  was  a  dramatist.  Of  his  first  steps  in  the  practice 
of  poetry  nothing  is  known ;  but  the  study  of  his  plays 
and  poems  has  thrown  some  light  on  his  dealings  with 
literature.  Books  served  him  in  two  ways ;  as  a  mine, 
and  as  a  school :  he  lifted  from  them  the  tales  that  he 
rehandled,  and  he  learned  from  them  some  part  of  his 
poetic  and  dramatic  method. 

His  literary  sources  have  been  so  carefully  identified 
and  so  exhaustively  studied,  that  it  is  possible  to  make 
a  long  catalogue  of  the  books  that  he  read  or  consulted. 
The  slow-footed  and  painstaking  pursuit  of  him  by  the 
critics  through  ways  that  he  trod  so  carelessly  and 
lightly  would  furnish  a  happy  theme  for  his  own  wit 
and  irony.  The  world  lay  open  to  him,  and  he  had 
small  patience  with  the  tedious  processes  of  minute 
culture.  He  was  a  hungry  and  rapid  reader;  and 
has  expressed,  with  something  of  a  witty  young  man's 
intolerance,  his  contempt  for  more  laborious  methods  : 

Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun, 

That  will  not  be  deep-search'd  with  saucy  looks  ; 

Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won 

Save  base  authority  from  others'  books. 

In  Stratford  he  can  have  had  no  great  choice  of  books, 
though  we  may  assume  that  he  read  most  of  those  he 

63 


64  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

could  lay  his  hands  on.     There  is  extant  a  private 
account-book  containing  an  inventory  of  the  furniture 
and  books  belonging  to  Sir  William  More,  of  Loseley, 
in  the  last  year  of  the  reign  of  Queen   Mary,  some 
seven  years  before  Shakespeare  was  born.     This  list 
has  nothing  to  do  with  Shakespeare,  but  it  serves  to 
show  what  books  were  to  be  found  in  the  library  of 
a   country  gentleman    of    literary    tastes    and    easy, 
though   not   ample,  means.     There   is   a  selection  of 
the  Latin  classics,  including  works  by  Ovid,  Horace, 
Juvenal,  Suetonius,  Apuleius,  and   a  volume   of   ex- 
tracts from  Terence.     Cicero's  Offices,  and  Thucydides, 
occur    in    the    English    translations   of  Whittington 
and   Nicolls.     In    Italian    there   are   Petrarch,    Boc- 
caccio,   Machiavel,    and   the    Book   of    the    Courtier. 
Mediaeval    literature    is    represented    by  the   Golden 
Legend,  Vincentius  Lirinensis,  Albertus  De  Secretis, 
and   Cato's   Precepts;    the    Revival   of    Learning  by 
More   (the   Utopia),   Erasmus    (the  Adages   and   the 
Praise  of  Folly),  and  Marcellus  Palingenius.     There 
is    a   fair   number  of   Chronicles,   including  Higden, 
Fabyan,  Harding,  and  Froissart.      The   English   list 
includes   works   by    Chaucer,  Gower,  Lydgate,  John 
Heywood,  Skelton,  Alexander  Barclay,  and  a  liberal 
allowance  of   books  of   Songs,  Proverbs,  Fables,  and 
Ballads.     An  English  Bible,  copies  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment  in    Latin,    French,  and   Italian,  Elyot's    Latin 
Dictionary,   an   Italian   Dictionary,    some    books    on 
law,   physic,    and    land-surveying,    "a    book    of    the 
Turk,"  and  "a    treatise    of   the   newe    India,"  make 
up    the    list.     Last,    and   never    to   be   forgotten    in 
estimating  the  poetic   influences  of    the  time,  in  the 
parlour  there  was  a  pair  of  virginals,  a   lute,  and  a 
bittern.     This  is   a  richer   collection   of   books    than 
Shakespeare  was  likely  to   find    in  Stratford,  and  it 


in.]  BOOKS  AND  POETRY  65 

is  noticeable  that,  except  the  Latin  poets  whom  he 
read  at  school,  none  of  the  authors  occurring  in  the 
above  list  influenced  him  in  any  marked  fashion.  He 
was  a  child  of  the  English  Kenaissance,  and  it  was 
the  books  of  his  own  age  that  first  caught  him  in 
their  toils.  Even  Chaucer,  who  never  lost  popularity, 
lost  esteem  with  the  younger  generation  of  Eliza- 
bethans, and  suffered  from  the  imputation  of  rusticity. 
But  the  translations  and  imitations  of  the  classics, 
which  poured  from  the  press  during  the  second  half  of 
the  century,  the  poems  and  love-pamphlets  and  plays 
of  the  University  wits,  the  tracts  and  dialogues  in  the 
prevailing  Italian  taste  —  all  these  were  the  making 
of  the  new  age  and  the  favourite  reading  of  Shake- 
speare, who  can  hardly  have  become  intimate  with 
them  until  he  first  set  foot  in  London.  No  doubt  he 
ranged  up  and  down  the  bookstalls  of  Paul's  Church- 
yard, browsing  among  "  the  innumerable  sorts  of  Eng- 
lish books, and  infinite  fardles  of  printed  pamphlets" 
wherewith,  according  to  a  contemporary,  "  this  Country 
is  pestered,  all  shops  stuffed,  and  every  study  fur- 
nished." Here  for  a  few  shillings  he  may  have  bought 
books  printed  by  Caxton  and  his  pupils,  and  so  made 
acquaintance  with  Gower,  whom  he  read,  and  with 
Malory,  some  of  whose  phrases  he  seems  to  echo. 
Here,  no  doubt,  he  tore  the  heart,  at  a  single  reading, 
out  of  many  a  pamphlet  and  many  a  novel.  He  was 
no  bibliophile,  though  he  gives  utterance,  with  curious 
frequency,  to  the  opinion  that  a  good  book  should 
have  a  good  binding.  He  read  the  works  of  his  con- 
temporaries as  they  appeared.  Marlowe,  his  master  in 
the  drama,  he  has  honoured  in  the  most  unusual  fash- 
ion by  direct  quotation : 

Dead  shepherd,  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might : 
"  Who  ever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ?  " 

F 


66  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

From  Greene's  story  of  Dorastus  and  Fawnia  he  took 
the  plot  of  The  Winter 's  Tale;  and  it  is  permissible  to 
think  that  he  commemorated  the  unhappy  life  and 
early  death  of  Greene,  who  had  died  reviling  him, 
in  those  lines  of  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  which 
describe 

The  thrice  three  Muses,  mourning  for  the  death 
Of  learning  late  deceas'd  in  beggary. 

On  Thomas  Lodge's  novel  Rosalynde  he  based  his 
play  of  As  You  Like  It.  He  read  EupJmes,  of  course ; 
borrowed  from  it,  and  in  Henry  IV.  ridiculed  its  af- 
fectations. He  read  Sidney's  Arcadia,  and  perhaps 
took  from  it  the  underplot  of  Gloucester  and  his  sons 
in  King  Lear.  And  apart  from  these  famous  instances, 
there  is  hardly  a  pamphlet,  in  that  age  of  pamphlets, 
which  the  student  can  read  in  the  certainty  that 
Shakespeare  has  not  been  before  him.  The  names  of 
the  devils  in  King  Lear  seem  to  be  borrowed  from  an 
obscure  Protestant  tract,  of  1603,  called  A  Declaration 
of  egregious  Popish  Impostures.  The  arguments  of  Shy- 
lock,  in  his  speeches  before  the  Duke,  have  been  sup- 
posed to  owe  something  to  Silvayn's  Orator,  a  book 
of  declamations  translated  in  1596  from  the  French ; 
while  a  very  close  parallel  to  Portia's  reply  has  been 
found  in  the  prose  of  Seneca.  These  are  instances 
which  might  be  multiplied  a  hundredfold ;  and  al- 
though few  are  certain  cases  of  debt,  their  cumulative 
effect  is  irresistible.  Shakespeare  was  one  of  those  swift 
and  masterly  readers  who  know  what  they  want  of  a 
book ;  they  scorn  nothing  that  is  dressed  in  print,  but 
turn  over  the  pages  with  a  quick  discernment  of  all 
that  brings  them  new  information,  or  jumps  with  their 
thought,  or  tickles  their  fancy.  Such  a  reader  will  per- 
haps have  done  with  a  volume  in  a  few  minutes,  yet 


m.]  BOOKS   AND   POETRY  67 

what  lie  has  taken  from  it  he  keeps  for  years.  He  is 
a  live  man ;  and  is  sometimes  wrongly  judged  by 
slower  wits  to  be  a  learned  man. 

Among  the  publications  of  his  own  age,  some  few 
stand  out  pre-eminent  as  books  that  were  of  more 
than  passing  interest  to  Shakespeare,  books  that  he 
ransacked  from  cover  to  cover  for  the  material  of  his 
plays.  The  books  that  served  him  best  for  his  dramatic 
plots  were  Raphael  Holinshed's  Chronicles,  Sir  Thomas 
North's  translation  of  Plutarch's  Lives,  and  the  Italian 
novelists,  in  many  translations,  chief  among  which  must 
be  reckoned  Painter's  Palace  of  Pleasure,  containing  a 
selection  of  the  choicest  novels  of  the  great  Italian 
masters.  These  books,  one  would  say,  he  must  have 
owned.  The  novelists  supplied  him,  either  directly, 
or  through  the  medium  of  some  earlier  play,  with 
much  of  the  material  of  his  comedy.  From  Holinshed 
he  took  the  substance  of  his  English  historical  plays ; 
and  his  study  of  the  book  acquainted  him  also 
with  those  ancient  British  legends  which  he  trans- 
figured in  King  Lear,  Macbeth,  and  Cymbeline.  The 
Italian  novels  and  the  English  chronicle  history  cannot 
compare,  in  the  world's  literature,  with  the  thrice- 
renowned  Lives  of  Plutarch  ;  yet  all  three  were  worthy 
to  be  read  and  studied  by  Shakespeare. 

An  examination  of  the  use  that  he  makes  of  these, 
his  principal  sources,  shows  that  he  did  not  pay  the 
same  measure  of  respect  to  them  all.  The  novels  he 
treats  with  the  utmost  freedom,  altering  them,  or 
adding  to  them,  to  suit  his  fancy.  He  brings  them 
out  of  the  languid  realm  of  romance  by  inventing 
new  realistic  characters,  who  give  something  of  the 
diversity  of  life  to  the  story,  and  save  it  from 
swooning  into  sheer  convention.  Orlando  and  Rosa- 
lind must  run  the  gauntlet  of  criticism  at  the  hands  of 


68  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

Touchstone  and  Jaques  ;  the  love-affair  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet  is  seen  in  its  more  prosaic  aspects  through  the 
eyes  of  Mercutio  and  the  Nurse.  In  the  interests  of 
comedy  he  does  away  with  much  of  the  pain  and 
squalor  of  his  originals.  In  Greene's  novel  Bellaria, 
the  original  of  Hermione  in  The  Winter's  Tale,  dies ;  in 
Shakespeare's  play  she  is  kept  alive,  by  strange  means, 
for  the  final  reconciliation.  In  Twelfth  Night,  again, 
the  story,  as  it  is  told  by  Barnabe  Riche,  from  whose 
novel  of  Apollonius  and  Silla  Shakespeare  seems  to 
have  taken  the  main  incidents  of  the  play,  has  in 
it  strong  elements  of  pain  and  tragedy.  Viola,  in 
Riche's  story,  has  been  wronged  and  deserted  by  the 
Duke  ;  Olivia,  in  the  course  of  the  intrigue,  is  betrayed 
by  Sebastian.  These  ugly  features  of  the  story  were 
altered  by  Shakespeare;  and  the  result  is  a  pure 
comedy  of  fancy,  a  world  of  romantic  incident  seen 
through  a  golden  haze  of  love  and  mirth.  So  he 
moulded  a  story  to  his  liking,  turning  it,  as  seemed 
good  to  his  mood  and  judgment,  into  tragedy,  or 
comedy,  or  romance.  In  the  plays  that  deal  with 
English  history  he  was  compelled  to  keep  closer  to  his 
sources ;  but  he  was  fortunate  in  the  authors  that  he 
used.  The  Chronicles  of  Holinshed,  unlike  more 
modern  histories,  are  dramatic  in  essence ;  they  leave 
constitutional  problems  on  one  side  and  make  the 
most  of  striking  events  and  characters.  The  very 
title-page  of  Hall's  Chronicle  is  a  fair  enough  descrip- 
tion of  Shakespeare's  theme :  "  The  Union  of  the  two 
Noble  and  Illustre  Families  of  Lancaster  and  York, 
being  long  in  continual  dissension  for  the  crown  of 
this  noble  realm,  with  all  the  acts  done  in  both  the 
times  of  the  princes  both  of  the  one  lineage  and  of 
the  other,  beginning  at  the  time  of  King  Henry 
the  Fourth,  the  first  author  of  this  division,  and  so 


in.]  BOOKS  AND   POETRY  69 

successively  proceeding  to  the  reign  of  the  high  and 
prudent  prince  King  Henry  the  Eight,  the  undubitate 
flower  and  very  heir  of  both  the  said  lineages."  That 
irony  of  kingship,  which  Mr.  Pater  conceives  it  is 
Shakespeare's  main  purpose  to  set  forth,  is  already 
present  in  the  mind  of  the  prose  chronicler,  who  thus 
comments  on  the  fate  of  King  Richard  n. :  "  What 
trust  is  in  this  world,  what  surety  man  hath  of  his 
life,  and  what  constancy  is  in  the  unstable  commonalty, 
all  men  may  apparently  perceive  by  the  ruin  of  this 
noble  prince,  which  being  an  undubitate  king,  crowned 
and  anointed  by  the  spiritualty,  honoured  and  exalted 
by  the  nobility,  obeyed  and  worshipped  of  the  common 
people,  was  suddenly  deceived  by  them  which  he  most 
trusted,  betrayed  by  them  whom  he  had  preferred, 
and  slain  by  them  whom  he  had  brought  up  and 
nourished :  so  that  all  men  may  perceive  and  see  that 
fortune  weigheth  princes  and  poor  men  all  in  one 
balance."  Sometimes  Shakespeare  follows  his  authority 
so  tamely  that  he  versifies  whole  speeches  from  the 
chronicler,  working,  as  it  would  seem,  with  the  book 
open  before  him.  The  discussion  on  the  Salic  Law 
in  Henry  V.,  and  the  long  dialogue  between  Malcolm 
and  Macduff,  in  the  Fourth  Act  of  Macbeth,  are  taken 
directly  from  Holinshed,  and  are  very  imperfectly 
dramatised.  It  is  to  passages  like  these  that  Dryden 
alludes  when  he  speaks  of  Shakespeare  falling  "  into 
a  carelessness,  and,  as  I  may  call  it,  a  lethargy  of 
thought,  for  whole  scenes  together."  But  when  a 
crisis  calls  for  treatment,  when  his  imagination  takes 
fire,  or  his  sense  of  humour  is  touched,  he  gives  over 
borrowing,  and  coins  from  his  own  mint.  Every 
word  spoken  by  Ealstaff  is  a  word  of  life,  for  Fal staff 
was  unknown  to  the  chroniclers.  The  character  of 
Lady  Macbeth  is  represented  in  Holinshed  by  a  single 


70  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

sentence :  "  But  specially  his  wife  lay  sore  upon  him 
to  attempt  the  thing,  as  she  that  was  very  ambitious, 
burning  in  unquenchable  desire  to  bear  the  name  of  a 
Queen."  From  this  bare  hint  Shakespeare  created  his 
murderess,  her  narrow  practical  intensity,  her  heroic 
courage  and  fierce  will,  holding  imagination  at  bay, 
soothing  and  supporting  her  husband,  making  light  of 
the  deed  to  be  done,  until  human  nature  avenges 
itself  on  her,  and  she  too  falls  a  victim  to  air-drawn 
fancies,  and  hears  voices  in  her  sleep.  The  most 
famous  of  the  freedoms  taken  with  Holinshed  is  to  be 
found  in  King  Lear.  In  the  chronicle  version  Cordelia 
survives  her  misfortunes,  regains  her  kingdom,  and 
comforts  the  declining  years  of  her  father  ;  but  before 
Shakespeare  reached  the  close  of  his  play  he  had 
wound  the  tragedy  up  to  such  a  pitch  that  a 
happy  ending,  as  it  is  called,  was  unthinkable ;  a 
deeper  peace  than  the  peace  of  old  age  by  the  fireside 
was  needed  to  compose  that  heartrending  storm  of 
passion.  In  this  as  in  other  cases  Holinshed  was 
used  by  Shakespeare  as  a  kind  of  mechanical  aid  to 
start  his  imagination  on  its  flight  and  launch  it  into 
its  own  domain. 

With  Plutarch  the  case  is  far  different.  Tlie  Lives  of 
the  Noble  Grecians  and  Romans  was  the  only  supremely 
great  literary  work  which  Shakespeare  set  himself  to 
fashion  into  drama.  There  are  a  hundred  testimonies 
to  the  power  and  influence  of  this  book  of  the  ages. 
It  has  been  the  breviary  of  soldiers,  statesmen,  and 
orators,  and  has  fascinated  readers  so  diverse  as  Henry 
of  Navarre  and  Miss  Hannah  More.  In  Plutarch 
Shakespeare  found  some  of  the  most  superb  passages 
of  the  history  of  the  world,  great  deeds  nobly  nar- 
rated, and  great  characters  worthily  drawn.  More- 
over, his  material  was  already  more  than  half  shaped 


in.]  BOOKS   AND   POETRY  71 

to  his  hand,  for  Plutarch  writes  lives,  not  annals,  and 
pays  more  attention  to  the  character  of  men,  even  in 
its  humblest  manifestations,  than  to  the  general  and 
philosophic  causes  of  events.  "  They  who  write  lives," 
says  Montaigne,  "  by  reason  that  they  take  more 
notice  of  counsels  than  events,  more  of  what  proceeds 
from  within  doors  than  of  what  happens  without,  are 
the  fittest  for  my  perusal ;  and  therefore,  of  all  others, 
Plutarch  is  the  man  for  me."  Plutarch  was  the  man 
for  Shakespeare,  and  in  Plutarch  alone  he  sometimes 
met  his  match.  Some  of  the  finest  pieces  of  eloquence 
in  the  Roman  plays  are  merely  Sir  Thomas  North's 
splendid  prose  strung  into  blank  verse.  Shakespeare 
follows  his  authority  phrase  by  phrase  and  word  by 
word,  not,  as  with  Holinshed,  because  his  interest 
nagged,  but  because  he  knew  when  to  let  well  alone. 
It  may  even  be  said  that  in  some  places  he  has  fallen 
short  of  his  original.  There  is  a  passage  in  Plutarch's 
Life  of  Antony,  tremulous  with  suspense  and  dim 
forebodings,  wherein  is  described  how  the  god  Her- 
cules, on  the  night  before  the  last  surrender,  forsook 
the  cause  of  Antony.  "  The  self-same  night  within 
little  of  midnight,  when  all  the  city  was  quiet,  full 
of  fear  and  sorrow,  thinking  what  would  be  the  issue 
and  end  of  this  war :  it  is  said  that  suddenly  they 
heard  a  marvellous  sweet  harmony  of  sundry  sorts 
of  instruments  of  music,  with  the  cry  of  a  multi- 
tude of  people,  as  they  had  been  dancing,  and  had 
sung  as  they  use  in  Bacchus'  feasts,  with  movings  and 
turnings  after  the  manner  of  the  Satyrs :  and  it  seemed 
that  this  dance  went  through  the  city  unto  the  gate 
that  opened  to  the  enemies,  and  that  all  the  troop, 
that  made  this  noise  they  heard,  went  out  of  the  city 
at  that  gate.  Now  such  as  in  reason  sought  the  deptn 
of  the  interpretation  of  this  wonder,  thought  that  it 


72  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

was  the  god  unto  whom  Antonius  bare  singular 
devotion,  to  counterfeit  and  resemble  him,  that  did 
forsake  them."  Shakespeare  desired  to  preserve  this 
effect ;  and  in  the  Fourth  Act  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra 
he  introduces  a  music  of  hautboys  under  the  stage, 
and  makes  the  sentries  discuss  its  meaning.  But  this 
is  a  poor  substitute  for  Plutarch's  description.  The 
death  of  Cleopatra,  again,  as  it  is  described  in  Plu- 
tarch, is  a  combination  of  the  intensity  and  minute- 
ness of  realism  with  the  dignity  and  reserve  of  the 
best  classic  art.  "  Her  death  was  very  sudden.  Por 
those  whom  Caesar  sent  unto  her  ran  thither  in  all 
haste  possible,  and  found  the  soldiers  standing  at  the 
gate,  mistrusting  nothing  nor  understanding  of  her 
death.  But  when  they  opened  the  doors,  they  found 
Cleopatra  stark  dead,  laid  upon  a  bed  of  gold,  attired 
and  arrayed  in  her  royal  robes,  and  one  of  her  two 
women,  which  was  called  Iras,  dead  at  her  feet ;  and 
the  other  woman,  called  Charmian,  half  dead,  and 
trembling,  trimming  the  diadem  which  Cleopatra  ware 
upon  her  head.  One  of  the  soldiers  seeing  her  angrily 
said  unto  her :  '  Is  that  well  done,  Charmian  ?  '  '  Very 
well,'  said  she  again,  '  and  meet  for  a  Princess  de- 
scended from  the  race  of  so  many  noble  Kings.'  She 
said  no  more,  but  fell  down  dead,  hard  by  the  bed." 
Here  the  drama  falls  short ;  perhaps  because  so  much 
of  the  effect  of  the  narrative  depends  on  those  moving 
little  touches  of  description  —  the  unconscious  sentries, 
the  trembling  handmaiden  —  which  must  perforce  be 
omitted  in  the  drama,  or  expressed  in  a  more  tiivial 
and  coarser  fashion  by  the  gestures  of  the  players. 

There  is  evidence  to  show  how  strong  a  hold 
the  stories  and  characters  of  Plutarch  laid  upon 
Shakespeare's  imagination.  He  must  have  searched 
the  book  carefully  for  tragic  subjects  during  the  last 


in.]  BOOKS   AND  POETRY  73 

years  of  the  sixteenth  century,  some  time  before  he 
wrote  Julius  Caesar.  From  that  time  onward  memories 
of  his  reading  constantly  recur  to  him,  and  intrude 
upon  his  other  plays.  When  Horatio  reminds  the 
companions  of  his  watch  how 

In  the  most  high  and  palmy  state  of  Rome, 
A  little  ere  the  mightiest  Julius  fell, 
The  graves  stood  tenantless  and  the  sheeted  dead 
Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  Roman  streets. 

the  Danish  courtier  is  borrowing  his  history  from  Plu- 
tarch. When  Banquo,  on  the  sudden  disappearance  of 
the  witches,  exclaims  — 

Were  such  things  here  as  we  do  speak  about, 
Or  have  we  eaten  on  the  insane  root, 
That  takes  the  reason  prisoner  ? 

the  Scottish  thane  is  remembering  his  Plutarch. 
Botanists  have,  as  usual,  given  their  cheerful  help  to 
determine  the  name  of  the  insane  root.  Their  opinions 
would  have  enlightened  Shakespeare,  for  the  fact  is 
that  he  did  not  know  its  name.  There  lingered  in  his 
memory  a  passage  from  Plutarch's  Life  of  Antony  de- 
scribing how  the  Roman  soldiers  in  the  Parthian  war 
were  forced  by  hunger  "to  taste  of  roots  that  were 
never  eaten  before,  among  the  which  there  was  one 
that  killed  them,  and  made  them  out  of  their  wits." 
In  Cymbeline  the  bed-chamber  of  Imogen  is  hung  with 
tapestry  representing  the  picture  of 

Proud  Cleopatra,  when  she  met  her  Roman, 
And  Cydnus  swell'd  above  the  banks,  or  for 
The  press  of  boats,  or  pride. 

And  the  very  subject  of  Timon  of  Athens  was  probably 
suggested  by  the  short  description  of  Timon  which  is 


74  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

given  in  the  Life  of  Antony.  North's  Plutarch  did 
more  than  supply  Shakespeare  with  matter  for  his 
plays  ;  it  excited  his  imagination  and  possessed  his 
thought. 

The  question  of  his  Biblical  knowledge  has  been 
discussed  in  many  treatises,  and  involved  in  a  net- 
work of  wire-drawn  arguments.  Some  critics  have 
maintained  that  his  reading  was  in  the  Bishops'  Bible; 
others  hold  for  the  Genevan  version.  Both  succeed  in 
establishing  their  case ;  indeed,  it  would  be  strange  if 
he  had  not  known  something  of  both  versions.  The 
Bishops'  Bible  was  read  in  the  churches ;  the  Genevan 
Bible  was  more  widely  circulated  in  portable  editions. 
He  has  references  to  Pilate  washing  his  hands ;  to  the 
Prodigal  Son,  to  Jacob  and  Laban,  to  Lazarus  and 
Dives,  and  the  like.  But  it  cannot  be  inferred  from 
this  that  he  was  a  deep  student  of  the  Bible.  The 
phraseology  of  his  age,  like  that  of  later  ages,  was 
saturated  with  Biblical  reminiscence.  The  Essays  of 
Elia  are  a  tissue  of  Biblical  phrase ;  and  Shakespeare's 
knowledge  of  the  Bible,  which  may  fairly  be  likened 
to  Charles  Lamb's,  was  probably  acquired  in  casual 
and  desultory  fashion. 

Of  modern  French  and  Italian  writers  it  is  clear  that 
those  whom  he  knew  best  he  knew  in  translation. 
Prom  the  plays  it  may  be  gathered  that  he  had  a 
certain  colloquial  knowledge  of  Prench,  and,  at  the 
least,  a  smattering  of  Italian.  The  plots  of  Measure  for 
Measure  and  Othello  are  taken  from  the  Hecatommitlii, 
a  collection  of  Italian  novels,  published  in  1566,  by 
Giambattista  Giraldi,  commonly  called  Cinthio.  The 
plot  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice  is  taken,  in  the  main,  from 
another  collection  called  II  Pecorone,  by  Ser  Giovanni 
Piorentino.  The  Measure  for  Measure  story  had  already 
been  dramatised  by  George  Whetstone  under  the  title 


in.]  BOOKS   AND   POETRY  75 

of  Promos  and  Cassandra  (1578),  and  there  are  traces 
of  an  earlier  dramatic  handling  of  the  Merchant  of 
Venice  story,  in  a  lost  play  called  The  Jew.  But  no 
intermediate  form  has  been  found  for  the  Othello 
story ;  which  therefore  remains  the  chief  argument  for 
Shakespeare's  direct  use  of  Italian  authors.  A  man 
of  less  than  his  ability  could  learn  in  a  few  weeks 
enough  Italian  for  a  purpose  like  this,  so  that  no  great 
significance  attaches  to  the  discussion.  He  was  not 
influenced  by  the  works  of  Machiavel,  as  Marlowe 
was  ;  nor  by  those  of  Pietro  Aretino,  as  Xashe  was. 
An  incident  taken  from  Ariosto,  whom  Spenser  knew 
so  well,  occurs  in  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  but  there 
is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  went  further  for  it  than 
Sir  John  Harington's  translation  of  1591.  If  he  had 
studied  Ariosto,  we  might  expect  to  find  more  numer- 
ous and  intimate  marks  of  acquaintance ;  and  the  same 
argument  applies  to  Eabelais.  There  are  substances 
which  have  the  property  of  igniting  each  other ;  and 
the  fact  that  they  never  did  is  proof  enough  that  they 
never  came  into  contact.  Kosalind's  allusion,  in  As 
You  Like  It,  to  the  size  of  Gargantua's  mouth  is 
plainly  a  reminiscence  of  a  lost  Elizabethan  chap-book 
which  gave  to  English  readers  the  shell  of  Eabelais' 
fable  without  the  vivifying  soul ;  and  some  few  Eabe- 
laisian  turns  of  speech,  which  are  found  on  the 
lips  of  Iago  and  others,  even  if  they  are  origirial  in 
Eabelais,  probably  came  borne  to  Shakespeare  upon 
the  tide  of  talk.  He  was  well  acquainted,  through  the 
translation  of  Florio,  with  Montaigne,  that  other 
great  pioneer  of  the  modern  spirit.  It  has  been  argued 
that  a  certain  deeper  vein  of  scepticism  and  question- 
ing, which  makes  its  appearance  in  his  mature  tragic 
work,  was  borrowed  from  Montaigne.  Certainly  it 
would   not   be  difficult  to   gather   from   Montaigne's 


76  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

Essays  an  anthology  of  passages  which  speak  with  the 
very  voice  of  Hamlet;  but  the  similarity  seems  to 
spring  from  the  natural  kinship  of  questioning  minds. 
"  Man  has  nothing  properly  his  own,"  says  Montaigne, 
"  but  the  use  of  his  opinions  "  ;  and  Hamlet  echoes  the 
thought.  It  is  not  likely  that  Shakespeare  was  de- 
pendent for  so  ancient  a  discovery  on  the  labours  of 
Florio.  Was  the  widow,  in  Hie  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 
a  pupil  of  Montaigne's  ?  In  her  raillery  of  Petruchio 
she  utters  the  text  upon  which  Montaigne's  work 
may  be  said  to  be  one  long  commentary  :  "  He  that  is 
giddy  thinks  the  world  turns  round."  Was  Biron  in- 
debted to  Montaigne  ?  He  teaches  the  same  doctrine 
when  he  remarks  that  "  every  man  with  his  affects  is 
born."  The  only  passage  of  importance  which  Shake- 
speare certainly  borrowed  directly  from  Montaigne 
bears  no  witness  to  discipleship  in  thought.  In  his 
essay  Of  Cannibals  Montaigne  gravely  argues  for  the 
superiority  of  the  savage  state,  and  drives  the  argu- 
ment to  its  full  conclusion;  in  TJie  Tempest  Shake- 
speare borrows  the  description  of  the  unsophisticated 
commonwealth,  and  plays  with  the  idea  only  to 
ridicule  it.  Their  differences  are  absolute :  Montaigne 
is  at  ease,  not  to  say  exultant,  in  his  doubt ;  his 
business  is  to  spy  out  human  weaknesses  and  to  put  all 
human  life  to  the  question:  Shakespeare  does  not 
withhold  the  question,  but  his  eye  and  heart  are  at 
a  mortal  war,  and  in  the  end  the  gentlemen  of  the 
inquisition  find  that  he  belongs  to  the  other  party. 
His  ultimate  sympathies  are  with  human  frailty, 
human  simplicity,  human  unreason ;  and  it  is  to  these 
that  he  gives  the  last  word.  He  has,  what  Montaigne 
shows  no  trace  of,  a  capacity  for  tragic  thought. 

The  careful  study  of  Shakespeare's  sources,  though 
it  throws  some  light  on  his  dramatic  methods,  does 


in.]  BOOKS   AND   POETRY  77 

not  bring  us  much  nearer  to  the  heart  of  the  matter. 
Its  results  are  mainly  negative.  The  stress  of  our 
interpretation  must  not  be  laid  upon  those  parts  of 
his  story  which  he  borrowed  from  others  and  preserved 
unaltered.  What  he  added  to  the  story  was  himself ; 
and  a  comparison  of  what  he  found  with  what  he  left 
forces  us  to  the  conclusion  that  his  choice  of  books 
was  largely  accidental.  If  these  had  not  come  to  his 
hand,  others  would  have  served  as  well.  Subjects  fit 
for  his  uses  lay  all  around  him.  He  read  Holinshed, 
and  happened  on  the  stories  of  King  Lear  and  Mac- 
beth. There  is  nothing  in  these  stories,  as  he  found 
them,  to  awaken  more  than  a  languid  interest.  He 
could  have  made  as  good  a  tragedy  of  the  story  of 
Bluebeard  —  and  the  English  critics  would  have 
suspected  him  of  a  covert  reference  to  Leicester.  He 
could  have  made  an  enthralling  romance  of  the  story 
of  Cinderella — and  the  German  critics  would  have 
found  the  inner  meaning  of  the  play  in  the  Kantian 
doctrine  of  time.  The  craft  and  experience  which 
were  the  making  of  the  plays  are  not  taken  from  the 
books.  Plutarch  stands  alone ;  partly  because  in 
Plutarch,  at  a  time  when  his  interest  was  attracted  to 
politics,  he  found  the  best  political  handbook  in  the 
world  ;  and  not  less  because  Plutarch  was  near  enough 
to  the  crisis  of  Roman  history  to  catch  a  measure  of 
the  thrilling  and  convincing  quality  of  tilings  seen  and 
heard. 

The  literature  which  influenced  Shakespeare  most 
habitually,  and  left  its  mark  everywhere  on  his  plays, 
is  literature  of  another  kind  —  a  kind  which  is  hardly 
entitled  to  the  formal  dignity  of  the  name,  and  may 
perhaps  be  more  truly  considered  as  an  aspect  of 
social  life.  His  plays  are  extraordinarily  rich  in  the 
floating  debris  of  popular  literature — scraps  and  tags 


78  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

and  broken  ends  of  a  whole  world  of  songs  and  ballads 
and  romances  and  proverbs.  In  this  respect  he  is 
notable  even  among  his  contemporaries ;  few  of  them 
can  match  him  in  the  wealth  that  he  caught  out  of  the 
air  or  picked  up  by  the  roadside.  Edgar  and  Iago, 
Petruchio  and  Benedick,  Sir  Toby  and  Pistol,  the  Fool 
in  Lear  and  the  Gravedigger  in  Hamlet,  even  Ophelia 
and  Desdemona,  are  all  alike  singers  of  old  songs, 
which  are  introduced  not  idly,  to  fill  up  the  time  or 
entertain  the  audience,  but  dramatically,  to  help  the 
situation.  From  the  Comedies  alone  a  fair  collection 
of  proverbs  might  be  gathered.  Who  said  "  Blessing 
of  your  heart,  you  brew  good  ale  "  ?  What  dramatic 
situations  suggested  the  following  —  "Still  swine  eats 
all  the  draff  "  ;  "  God  sends  a  curst  cow  short  horns" 
"  You  have  the  grace  of  God,  Sir,  and  he  hath  enough  " 
"  Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smother  " 
"  Black  men  are  pearls  in  ladies'  eyes  " ;  "  There's 
small  choice  in  rotten  apples  "  ?  These  were  reminis- 
cences of  a  humble  kind,  all  the  fitter  for  the  purposes 
of  a  dramatist  in  that  they  were  not  stolen  from  books, 
but  plucked  out  of  life,  where  they  never  lack  the  aid 
of  a  vivid  dramatic  setting. 

There  is  thus  no  difficulty  in  crediting  Shake- 
speare with  ample  opportunities  for  acquiring  the 
stock-in-trade  of  a  playwright.  The  strange  thing,  or 
the  thing  made  by  our  ignorance  to  seem  strange,  is 
that  his  earliest  published  works  reveal  him  in  a 
character  wholly  undramatic,  as  an  elegiac  narrative 
poet  of  the  polite  school.  No  biography,  however 
well-informed  and  minute,  can  lay  bare  the  processes 
of  a  poet's  initiation  in  his  craft,  which  are  in  their 
nature  far  more  obscure  than  the  history  of  his  life 
and  opinions.  His  education  in  the  use  of  his  native 
tongue,  and  in  the  appreciation  of  its  beauties  and 


in.]  BOOKS  AND  POETRY  79 

cadences,  begins  at  his  birth,  and  is  far  advanced  long 
before  biography  can  lay  hold  of  him.     We  are  con- 
tent to  believe  that  the  poetic  impulse  was  imparted  to 
Cowley,  and  to  Keats,  instantaneously,  by  the  chance 
reading  of  Spenser.     We  must  be  content  with  less 
knowledge   of   Shakespeare's   beginnings.     The   song 
and  dance  and  music  of  that  age  of  licensed  hilarity 
certainly  did  not  leave  Stratford  unvisited.     The  more 
elaborate  kinds  of  poetry,  ennobled  by  a  recognised 
ancestry,   belonged  to   a   single   stock,    and   haunted 
courtly  and  metropolitan  circles.     It  was  at  the  Court 
of  Anne  Bole}Tn  that  the  poetry  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury was  born ;  it  was  the  cousin  of  Anne  Boleyn, 
the   Earl  of    Surrey,  who  became  the  master  of   all 
sonneteering   lovers    and   all    new-fangled  writers  of 
blank  verse.     The  strength  of  the  school  of  Surrey  lay 
in  its  songs,  which  never  miss  the  essentials  of  verse 
that  is  to  be  wedded  to  music.     Even  the  dullest  of 
the  poets  of  that  school  understands  a  lyrical  move- 
ment, while  the  best  of  them  can  breathe  such  strains 
as  Wyatt's  ravishing  song,  with  the  burden  "  My  lute, 
be   still,  for  I  have  done,"  or  Gascoigne's  beautiful 
Lullaby.     But   the  school   was   unlucky  even   in   its 
cradle.     Protestant  psalmody,  which  was  born  in  the 
same  Court,  and    countenanced   by  the   same  kingly 
favour,  took  possession  of  its  simpler  measures  and 
degraded  them  to  doggerel  for  the  use  of  the  populace. 
The  Psalms  of  Sternhold  and  Hopkins  commanded  a 
far  larger  audience  than  the  courtly  poets,  and  shaped 
the  national  prosody  for  almost  half  a  century.     The 
monotonous    emphasis    of    the    universal    "poulter's 
measure,"  with  its  shorter  and  longer  swing,  as  of  a 
rocking-horse,  made  delicacy  of  diction  impossible  ;  and 
the  only  resource  left  to  the  oppressed  poets  was  to 
double  the    monotony  by  a   free   use  of   alliteration. 


80  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

From  the  tyranny  of  this  metre  the  country  was 
delivered  by  the  pens  of  the  University  wits.  They 
maintained  the  lyrical  tradition  in  all  its  fulness ;  for 
the  other  purposes  of  poetry  they  abandoned  the 
hobbling  measures  of  Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  Phaer 
and  Twyne,  and  reverted  to  the  old  ten-syllable  metre, 
which  they  rescued  from  the  hands  of  pedants,  and 
inspired  with  a  various  and  subtle  melody.  In  the 
form  of  blank  verse  Marlowe  proved  its  declama- 
tory and  dramatic  powers ;  in  stanza  form  Peele 
and  Greene,  and  Lodge  and  the  poets  of  the  Song- 
books  gave  it  a  new  fluidity  and  sweetness,  which 
sometimes  ripples  into  lyric,  sometimes  sinks  again 
into  the  quiet  cadences  of  deliberate  speech.  The 
reform  of  verse  was  accompanied  and  stimulated,  as 
it  always  is,  by  a  sudden  enrichment  of  the  matter 
which  verse  is  shaped  to  express.  Even  in  England, 
the  poetry  of  the  Renaissance  ceased,  for  a  time,  to 
concern  itself  with  man  as  a  being  under  authority, 
begirt  with  duties  and  responsibilities,  and  doomed  to 
old  age  and  death ;  it  turned  from  the  consideration 
of  magistrates  and  husbandmen  to  feast  its  eyes 
on  that  naked  and  primal  world  revealed  by  the  clas- 
sical mythology,  where  passion  ran  free,  restrained 
by  no  law  save  the  law  of  beauty.  The  revival  of 
classical  myth,  which  in  ordinary  court  circles  was  no 
more  than  a  fashionable  craze,  or  a  fresh  opportunity 
for  the  tailor,  to  Marlowe  and  his  fellows  was  a  new 
interpretation  of  life  and  a  new  warrant  given  to 
desire.  These  poets,  and  their  master  Ovid,  were  the 
masters  of  Shakespeare  ;  when  he  graduated  in  poetry 
it  was  in  this  school ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  see  how  the 
new  poetic  impulse  could  have  come  to  him  in  Stratford. 
Venus  and  Adonis  and  TJie  Rape  of  Lucrece,  which 
were  published  in  1593  and  the  following  year,  are 


in.]  BOOKS   AND   POETRY  81 

first  of  all  works  of  art.  They  are  poetic  exercises  by 
one  who  has  set  himself  to  prove  his  craftsmanship 
upon  a  given  subject.  If  traces  of  the  prentice  hand 
are  visible,  it  is  not  in  any  uncertainty  of  execution, 
nor  in  any  failure  to  achieve  an  absolute  beauty,  but 
rather  in  the  very  ostentation  of  artistic  skill.  There 
is  no  remission,  at  any  point,  from  the  sense  of  con- 
scious art.  The  poems  are  as  delicate  as  carved  ivory, 
and  as  bright  as  burnished  silver.  They  deal  with 
disappointment,  crime,  passion,  and  tragedy,  yet  are 
destitute  of  feeling  for  the  human  situation,  and  are, 
in  effect,  painless.  This  painlessness,  which  made 
Hazlitt  compare  them  to  a  couple  of  ice-houses,  is  due 
not  to  insensibility  in  the  poet,  but  to  his  preoccupa- 
tion with  his  art.  He  handles  life  from  a  distance,  at 
two  removes,  and  all  the  emotions  awakened  by  the 
poems  are  emotions  felt  in  the  presence  of  art,  not 
those  suggested  by  life.  The  arts  of  painting  and 
rhetoric  are  called  upon  to  lend  poetry  their  subjects 
and  their  methods.  From  many  passages  in  the  plays 
it  may  be  inferred  that  Shakespeare  loved  painting, 
and  was  familiar  with  a  whole  gallery  of  Renaissance 
pictures.     Portia's  elaborate  comparison  of  Bassanio  to 

young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea-monster, 

is  only  one  of  many  allusions  which  can  be  nothing 
but  reminiscences  of  pictures;  and  in  the  Induction 
to  TJie  Taming  of  the  Shrew  the  servants  submit  to 
Christopher  Sly  a  catalogue  which  is  the  best  possible 
commentary  on  Shakespeare's  early  poems : 

We  will  fetch  thee  straight 
Adonis  painted  by  a  running  brook, 
And  Cytherea  all  in  sedges  hid, 

G 


82  SHAKESrEARE  [chap. 

Which  seem  to  move  and  wanton  with  her  breath, 
Even  as  the  waving  sedges  play  with  wind. 

We'll  show  thee  Io  as  she  was  a  maid, 
And  how  she  was  beguiled  and  surpris'd, 
As  lively  painted  as  the  deed  was  done : 

Or  Daphne  roaming  through  a  thorny  wood, 
Scratching  her  legs,  that  one  shall  swear  she  bleeds ; 
And  at  that  sight  shall  sad  Apollo  weep, 
So  workmanly  the  blood  and  tears  are  drawn. 

Here  is  the  very  theme  of  Venus  and  Adonis,  and 
another  theme  closely  akin  to  The  Rape  of  Lucrece.  It 
would  not  be  rash  to  say  outright  that  both  the  poems 
were  suggested  by  pictures,  and  must  be  read  and 
appreciated  in  the  light  ©f  that  fact.  But  the  truth 
for  criticism  remains  the  same  if  they  took  their  sole 
origin  from  the  series  of  pictures  painted  in  words  by 
the  master-hand  of  Ovid.  "  So  workmanly  the  blood 
and  tears  are  drawn." 

The  rhetorical  art  of  the  poems  is  no  less  manifest. 
The  tirades  and  laments  of  both  poems,  on  Love  and 
Lust,  on  Night,  and  Time,  and  Opportunity,  are 
exquisitely  modulated  rhetorical  diversions ;  they 
express  rage,  sorrow,  melancholy,  despair;  and  it  is 
all  equally  soothing  and  pleasant,  like  listening  to  a 
dreamy  sonata.  Lucrece,  at  the  tragic  crisis  of  her 
history,  decorates  her  speech  with  far-fetched  illustra- 
tions and  the  arabesques  of  a  pensive  fancy.  And 
as  if  her  own  disputation  of  her  case  were  not  enough, 
the  poet  pursues  her  with  "sentences,"  conveying 
appropriate  moral  reflections.  She  is  sadder  than  ever 
when  she  hears  the  birds  sing ;  and  he  is  ready  with 
the  poetical  statutes  that  apply  to  her  case : 

'Tis  double  death  to  drown  in  ken  of  shore. 
He  ten  times  pines  that  pines  beholding  food ; 
To  see  the  salve  doth  make  the  wound  ache  more  ; 
Great  grief  grieves  most  at  that  would  do  it  good. 


hi.]  BOOKS   AND   POETRY  83 

There  is  no  morality  in  the  general  scheme  of  these 
poems ;  the  morality  is  all  inlaid,  making  of  the  poem 
a  rich  mosaic.  The  plays  have  to  do  with  a  world  too 
real  to  be  included  in  a  simple  moral  scheme ;  the 
poems  with  a  world  too  artificial  to  be  brought  into 
any  vital  relation  with  morality.  The  main  motive 
prompting  the  poet  is  the  love  of  beauty  for  beauty's 
sake,  and  of  wit  for  the  exercise  of  wit. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  Shakespeare  was  touched  by 
the  new  spirit  of  the  Renaissance.  That  great  move- 
ment of  the  mind  of  man  brought  with  it  the  exhilara- 
tion of  an  untried  freedom  and  the  zest  of  an  unlimited 
experiment;  but  it  took  the  human  soul  from  its 
station  in  a  balanced  and  rounded  scheme  of  things, 
to  deliver  it  over  to  every  kind  of  danger  and  excess. 
The  wonderful  system  of  Catholic  theology  gave  man 
his  place  in  the  universe;  it  taught  him  his  duties, 
allowed  for  his  weaknesses,  and  at  all  times  exhibited 
him  in  so  complex  a  scheme  of  fixed  relations,  mundane 
and  celestial,  extending  beyond  the  very  bounds  of 
thought,  that  only  a  temper  of  absolute  humility  could 
carry  the  burden  lightly,  or  look  without  terror  down 
those  endless  vistas  of  law  and  providence.  From  his 
servant's  estate  in  this  great  polity  he  was  released 
by  the  Renaissance,  and  became  his  own  master  in 
chaos,  free  to  design  and  build  and  inhabit  for  himself. 
The  enormous  nature  of  the  task,  which  after  three 
centuries  is  still  hardly  begun,  did  not  at  first  oppress 
him;  he  was  like  a  child  out  of  school,  trying  his 
strength  and  resource  in  all  kinds  of  fantastic  and 
extravagant  attempts.  It  was  an  age  of  new  philos- 
ophies, new  arts,  new  cults ;  none  of  them  modest  or 
sober,  all  full  of  the  spirit  of  bravado,  high-towering 
but  not  broad-based,  erected  as  monuments  to  the 
skill  and  prowess  of  the  individual.     That  arrogance 


84  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

and  self-sufficiency  of  craft  which  by  the  men  of  the 
Eenaissance  was  called  virtue  is  found  in  many  dif- 
ferent guises ;  and  Shakespeare  did  not  wholly  escape 
the  prevalent  infection.  What  the  love  of  power  was 
to  Marlowe,  the  love  of  beauty  was  to  him.  In  these 
early  poems  the  Venus  of  the  Renaissance  takes  him 
captive, 

Leading  him  prisoner  in  a  red-rose  chain. 

The  devout  religion  of  the  eye  and  ear  is  all-in-all 
to  him:  his  world  is  a  world  of  gleaming  forms  and 
beautiful  speech.  He  exhibits  beauty  as  Marlowe  ex- 
hibits power,  freed  from  all  realistic  human  con- 
ditions. Only  here  and  there  in  the  poems  a  note  of 
observation,  a  touch  of  homely  metaphor,  remind  us 
that  he  is  not  out  of  reach  of  the  solid  earth  that 
is  hereafter  to  be  his  empire.  This  passionate  cult 
of  beauty  was  transformed,  rather  than  superseded,  by 
the  intrusion  of  thought  and  sorrow ;  so  that  the  much 
talked  of  phases,  or  stages,  in  Wordsworth's  love  of 
nature  are  paralleled  by  similar  stages  in  Shake- 
speare's love  of  humanity.  If  the  poems  were  lost,  we 
should  know  all  too  little  of  his  apprenticeship,  when 
human  life  was  to  him 

An  appetite,  a  feeling,  and  a  joy, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm  ; 

when  his  delight  in  the  shows  and  exercises  of  the 
world  left  him  no  leisure  for  unintelligible  problems 
or  unwelcome  cares. 

His  early  play  of  Titus  Andronicus,  which  is  like  the 
poems,  shows  how  strangely  hard-hearted  this  love  of 
beauty  can  be,  and  makes  it  easy  to  understand  how 
he  was  fascinated  and  dominated,  for  a  time,  by 
Marlowe.  Yet  even  in  Venus  and  Adonis  there  is 
evidence    that   he  has  outgrown  Marlowe,  and  is  on 


in]  BOOKS   AND   POETRY  85 

the  way  to  a  serener  and  wiser  view  of  things.  The 
protest  of  Adonis,  beginning  "Call  it  not  love,"  is  un- 
like anything  in  Marlowe,  and  sounds  the  knell  of 
violent  ambitions  and  desires. 

Love  comforteth  like  sunshine  after  rain, 
But  Lust's  effect  is  tempest  after  sun  ; 
Love's  gentle  spring  doth  always  fresh  remain  ; 
Lust's  winter  comes  ere  summer  half  be  done; 

Love  surfeits  not,  Lust  like  a  glutton  dies ; 

Love  is  all  truth,  Lust  full  of  forged  lies. 

These  early  exercises  in  description  and  moralisation 
served  him  well  in  his  dramatic  work.  The  same  skill 
that  described  the  hare-hunt  and  the  escape  of  Adonis' 
horse  is  seen  in  the  minutely  drawn  picture  of  the 
apothecary's  shop  in  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  but  the  detail 
in  this  later  picture  subserves  the  human  drama,  and 
testifies  to  the  quickening  of  all  Borneo's  faculties  by 
the  sudden  excitement  of  grief.  It  is  not  always  so; 
the  poet  in  Shakespeare  sometimes  forgets  the  dram- 
atist, and  interjects  a  fanciful  description,  elabo- 
rated for  its  own  sake,  and  assigned,  without  ceremony, 
to  be  spoken  by  the  nearest  stander-by.  The  descrip- 
tion of  the  little  princes  in  the  Tower,  "  their  lips  like 
four  red  roses  on  a  stalk,"  is  put  into  the  mouths  of 
their  murderers  ;  and  the  landscape  of  Ophelia's  death, 
as  it  is  sketched  by  the  Queen,  is  a  wonderful  piece  of 
poetry,  but  has  no  dramatic  value  in  relation  to  the 
speaker. 

After  Tlie  Rape  of  Lucrece  Shakespeare,  so  far  as  we 
can  tell,  published  no  more,  neither  poem  nor  drama. 
In  1609  there  was  issued  a  small  quarto  volume  en- 
titled Shakespeare" 's  Sonnets  Never  Before  Imprinted.  Its 
price,  at  that  time,  was  sixpence,  and  it  was  introduced 
by  a  dedication,  which  ran  as  follows  :  To  the  onlie  beget- 
ter of  these  insuing  Sonnets  Mr.  W.  H.  all  happinesse  and 


8G  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

that  eternitie  promised  by  our  ever-living  poet  ivisheth  the 
well-wishing  adventurer  in  setting  forth.    T.  T. 

This  is  not  the  place  nor  the  time  for  the  discussion 
of  all  the  attempts  that  have  been  made  to  unravel  the 
most  tangled  problem  of  Shakespeare  criticism.  There 
are  many  footprints  around  the  cave  of  this  mystery, 
none  of  them  pointing  in  the  outward  direction.  No 
one  has  ever  attempted  a  solution  of  the  problem  with- 
out leaving  a  book  behind  him;  and  the  shrine  of 
Shakespeare  is  thickly  hung  with  these  votive  offer- 
ings, all  withered  and  dusty.  No  one  has  ever  sought 
to  gain  access  to  this  heaven  of  poetry  by  a  privileged 
and  secret  stairway,  without  being  blown  ten  thousand 
leagues  awry,  over  the  backside  of  the  world,  into  the 
Paradise  of  Fools.     The  cpiest  remains  unachieved. 

Many  books  have  been  written  on  the  dedication 
alone.  Among  recent  adventurers,  Mr.  Sidney  Lee 
has  revived  the  theory  of  Boswell  and  Chalmers, 
which,  by  taking  "begetter"  in  the  sense  of  "pro- 
curer," reduces  the  dedication  to  perfect  insignificance. 
The  writer  of  the  dedication,  and  owner  of  the  copy- 
right, was  one  Thomas  Thorpe,  who  held  an  obscure 
position  in  the  bookselling  and  publishing  world  of 
London.  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  as  we  know  from 
the  allusion  to  them,  in  1598,  by  Francis  Meres, 
were  circulated  in  manuscript  "  among  his  private 
friends."  According  to  Mr.  Lee,  copies  of  them  were 
privily  obtained,  through  some  unknown  channel,  by 
one  William  Hall,  acting  as  the  humble  jackal  of 
the  obscure  Thorpe,  and  were  delivered  by  him 
to  his  master,  who  rewarded  him  with  a  facetious 
dedication,  couched  in  terms  of  piratical  generosity. 
This  theory  cannot  be  proved,  but  there  is  nothing 
in  it  to  stagger  belief.  There  are  grave  difficulties  in 
accepting  it,  but  perhaps  they  are  not  insuperable,  and 


in.]  BOOKS  AND  POETRY  87 

it  has  one  immense  advantage :  it  makes  waste-paper  of 
all  the  acrostic  literature  which  has  gathered  round  the 
initials  of  Mr.  \Y.  H.,  and  leaves  us  free  to  consider 
the  Sonnets  apart  from  the  dedication. 

Shakespeare,  it  seems,  did  not  authorise  the  publi- 
cation ;  neither,  so  far  as  appears,  did  he  protest,  or 
take  any  steps  to  leave  the  world  an  amended  version. 
The  bulk  of  the  Sonnets  were  written  before  1599, 
when  two  of  them,  which  involve  the  whole  story- 
shadowed  forth  in  many  of  the  others,  appeared  in  a 
piratical  publication.  The  order  which  they  follow 
in  Thorpe's  edition  has  never  been  bettered,  and  in 
most  places  cannot  be  disturbed,  for  they  often  fall 
into  natural  groups  of  ten,  twelve,  or  fourteen,  closely 
connected  by  the  sense.  Some  of  them  are  addressed 
to  a  man,  and  some  to  a  woman.  They  are  intensely 
personal  in  feeling,  and  run  through  many  moods. 
Some  explain  themselves;  others  certainly  contain 
allusions  and  references  to  events  of  which  we  have  no 
record.  Xo  more  wonderful  or  beautiful  expressions 
of  affection  exist  in  the  English  language,  and  it  has 
never  been  seriously  cpiestioned  that  all  the  Sonnets 
are  by  Shakespeare. 

Are  they  autobiographical  ?  Professor  Dowden  has 
replied  to  the  question  in  modest  and  guarded  words. 
"  I  believe,"  he  says,  "  that  Shakespeare's  Sonnets 
express  his  own  feelings  in  his  own  person."  It  is 
true  that  the  autobiographical  interpretation,  driven 
too  far,  has  assumed  all  kinds  of  extravagant  forms ; 
and  poetical  metaphors  have  been  forced  to  prove  that 
Shakespeare  was  lame,  that  there  was  an  attempt  to 
assassinate  him,  and  so  forth.  But  these  Sonnets,  by 
general  consent,  were  private  documents;  they  were 
not  intended  by  Shakespeare  for  our  perusal,  but  were 
addressed  to  individuals.     To  say  that  they  do  not 


88  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

"express  his  own  feelings  in  his  own  person,"  is  as 
much  as  to  say  that  they  are  not  sincere.  And  every 
lover  of  poetry  who  has  once  read  the  Sonnets  knows 
this  to  be  untrue.  It  is  not  chiefly  their  skill  that 
takes  us  captive,  but  the  intensity  of  their  quiet 
personal  appeal.  By  virtue  of  this  they  hold  their 
place  with  the  greatest  poetry  in  the  world ;  they  are 
rich  in  metaphor  and  various  in  melody,  but  these 
resources  of  art  have  been  subdued  to  the  feeling  that 
inspires  them,  and  have  given  us  poems  as  simple  and 
as  moving  as  the  pleading  voice  of  a  child. 

All  who  love  poetry  love  it  because  in  poetry  the 
profoundest  interests  of  life  are  spoken  of  directly, 
nakedly,  and  sincerely.  No  such  habitual  intimacy  of 
expression  is  possible  in  daily  speech.  In  poetry  it  is 
possible,  because  the  forms  and  conventions  and  re- 
straints of  art  give  dignity  and  quiet  to  the  turbulent 
feelings  on  which  they  are  imposed,  and  make  passion 
tolerable.  Without  the  passion  there  is  no  poetry  ;  to 
recognise  great  poetry  is  to  hear  the  authentic  voice. 
Poetry  is  a  touchstone  for  insincerity  ;  if  any  one  does 
not  feel  that  which  he  desires  to  express,  he  may  make 
a  passable  oration ;  he  will  never  make  a  great  poem. 

No  one  whose  opinion  need  be  considered  will  main- 
tain that  Shakespeare's  Sonnets  are  destitute  of  feeling. 
Some,  whose  opinions  claim  respect,  maintain  that  the 
feeling  which  inspires  them  has  nothing  to  do  with 
their  ostensible  occasions ;  that  they  are  free  exercises 
of  the  poetic  fancy,  roaming  over  the  dramatic  possi- 
bilities of  life,  and  finding  deep  expression  for  some  of 
its  imagined  crises.  Those  who  hold  this  view  have 
not  taken  the  trouble  to  explain  how  some  of  the 
sonnets  came  to  be  addressed  or  sent  to  any  one.  If 
it  was  a  patron  who  received  all  these  protests  of  in- 
alterable and  unselfish  devotion,  couched  in  language 


in.]  BOOKS  AND   POETRY  89 

which,  ever  since,  has  been  consecrated  to  pure  love, 
would  he  readily  understand  that  these  were  the 
flatteries  of  a  client,  skilled  in  verse  and  lost  to  self- 
respect,  hungry  for  favours  to  come  ?  Might  he  not 
take  the  poet  at  his  word,  and  make  embarrassing 
inroads  upon  the  time  and  energies  of  a  busy  man? 
Among  the  private  friends  who  were  favoured  with 
these  "  sugar'd  sonnets,"  what  lady  was  it  who  took 
pleasure  in  so  dramatic  a  compliment,  so  free  an  exer- 
cise of  the  poetic  fancy,  as  this  — 

For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair,  and  thought  thee  bright, 
Who  art  as  black  as  hell,  as  dark  as  night  ? 

If  the  sonnets  were  never  sent,  how  did  Thorpe  get 
hold  of  them  ?  If  they  were  circulated  among  dis- 
interested lovers  of  poetry,  would  not  some  of  them, 
which  deal  not  with  general  themes,  but  with  personal 
relations  quite  inadequately  explained,  be  as  unintel- 
ligible to  contemporary  readers  as  they  are  to  us  ? 
These  are  not  self-contained  poems,  like  Daniel's 
sonnet  on  Sleep,  or  Sidney's  sonnet  on  the  Moon; 
they  are  a  commentary  on  certain  implied  events.  If 
the  events  had  no  existence,  and  the  sonnets  are 
semi-dramatic  poems,  it  is  surely  essential  to  good 
drama  that  the  situation  should  be  made  clear.  More- 
over, the  sonnet-form  was  used  by  the  Elizabethans, 
who  followed  their  master  Petrarch,  exclusively  for 
poems  expressive  of  personal  feeling,  not  for  vague 
dramatic  fantasies.  The  greater  poets  —  Sidney, 
Spenser,  Drayton  —  reflect  in  their  sonnets  the  events 
of  their  own  history.  Shakespeare's  sonnets  are  more 
intense  than  these ;  and  less  explicable,  if  they  be 
deprived  of  all  background  and  occasion  in  fact.  Like 
Sidney,  Shakespeare  is  always  protesting  against  the 
misreading  which  would  reduce  his  passion  to  a  mere 


90  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

convention.  He  desires  to  be  remembered  not  for  his 
style,  but  for  his  love.  He  disclaims  the  stock  figures 
of  the  conventional  sonneteers 

And  yet,  by  heaven,  I  think  my  love  as  rare 
As  any  she  belied  with  false  compare. 

He  does  not  fear  homely  metaphor ;  and  none  of  the 
sonnets  is  more  convincing  in  its  pathos  than  that  in 
which  he  compares  himself  to  an  infant,  set  down 
by  its  mother,  while  she  chases  one  of  the  feathered 
creatures  that  has  escaped  from  the  fowl-yard  . 

So  runn'st  thou  after  that  which  flies  from  thee, 
Whilst  I  thy  babe  chase  thee  afar  behind  ; 
But  if  thou  catch  thy  hope,  turn  back  to  me, 
And  play  the  mother's  part,  kiss  me,  be  kind. 

The  situations  shadowed  are  unlike  the  conventional 
situations  described  by  the  tribe  of  sonneteers,  as  the 
hard-fought  issues  of  a  law-court  are  unlike  the  formal 
debates  of  the  Courts  of  Love.  Some  of  them  are 
strange,  wild,  and  sordid  in  their  nature :  themes  not 
chosen  by  poetry,  but  choosing  it,  and  making  their 
mark  on  it  by  the  force  of  their  reality.  All  poetry, 
all  art,  observes  certain  conventions  of  form.  These 
poems  are  sonnets.  There  is  nothing  else  conventional 
about  them,  except  their  critics. 

The  facts  which  underlie  them,  and  give  to  some  of 
them  their  only  possible  meaning,  cannot,  save  in  the 
vaguest  and  most  conjectural  fashion,  be  reconstructed. 
The  names  of  the  persons  involved  are  lost.  Two 
of  these  persons  are  described,  a  beautiful  wanton 
youth,  and  a  dark  faithless  woman.  With  one  or 
other  of  these  two  characters  most  of  the  sonnets,  if 
not  all  of  them,  are  concerned.  The  story  that  unrolls 
itself,  too  dimly  to  be  called  dramatic,  too  painfully  to 


in.]  BOOKS   AND  POETRY  91 

be  mistaken  for  the  pastime  of  a  courtly  fancy,  is  a 
story  of  passionate  friendship,  of  vows  broken  and 
renewed,  of  love  that  triumphs  over  unkindness,  of 
lust  that  is  a  short  madness  and  turns  to  bitterness 
and  remorse.  The  voice  of  the  poet  is  heard  in  many 
tones,  now  pleading  with  his  friend,  now  railing  against 
the  woman  that  has  ensnared  him  ;  here  a  hymn  of 
passionate  devotion,  there  a  strain  of  veiled  innuendo 
—  clear-sighted,  indecent,  cynical.  The  discourse 
passes,  by  natural  transitions,  from  the  intimacies  of 
love  and  friendship  to  those  other  feelings,  not  less 
intimate  and  sincere,  but  now  grown  pale  by  contrast 
with  the  elemental  human  passions:  the  poet's  hope 
of  fame,  or  his  sense  of  degradation  in  ministering  to 
the  idle  pleasures  of  the  multitude.  The  workings  of 
his  mind  are  laid  bare,  and  reveal  him,  in  no  surprising 
light,  as  subject  to  passion,  removed  by  the  width  of 
the  spheres  from  those  prudent  and  self-contained 
natures  whom  he  has  sketched  with  grave  irony  in 
the  ninety-fourth  sonnet: 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will  do  none, 
That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
"Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone, 
Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow: 
They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces 
And  husband  Nature's  riches  from  expense  ; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces, 
Others  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 

It  would  help  us  but  little  to  know  the  names  of  the 
beautiful  youth  and  the  dark  woman  ;  no  public  records 
could  reflect  even  faintly  those  vicissitudes  of  experi- 
ence, exultations  and  abysses  of  feeling,  which  have 
their  sole  and  sufficient  record  in  the  Sonnets. 

Poetry   is   not  biography;    and   the  value   of   the 
Sonnets  to  the  modern  reader  is  independent  of   all 


92  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

knowledge  of  their  occasion.  That  they  were  made 
from  the  material  of  experience  is  certain :  Shake- 
speare was  not  a  puny  imitative  rhymster.  But  the 
processes  of  art  have  changed  the  tear  to  a  pearl,  which 
remains  to  decorate  new  sorrows.  The  Sonnets  speak  to 
all  who  have  known  the  chances  and  changes  of  human 
life.  Their  occasion  is  a  thing  of  the  past;  their  theme 
is  eternal.  The  tragedy  of  which  they  speak  is  the  topic 
and  inspiration  of  all  poetry ;  it  is  the  triumph  of  Time, 
marching  relentlessly  over  the  ruin  of  human  ambitions 
and  human  desires.  It  may  be  read  in  all  nature  and 
in  all  art;  there  are  hints  of  it  in  the  movement  of  the 
dial-hand,  in  the  withering  of  flowers,  in  the  wrinkles 
on  a  beautiful  face  ;  it  comes  home  with  the  harvests 
of  autumn,  and  darkens  hope  in  the  eclipses  of  the  sun 
and  moon ;  the  yellowing  papers  of  the  poet  and  the 
crumbling  pyramids  of  the  builder  tell  of  it;  it  speaks 
in  the  waves  that  break  upon  the  shore,  and  in  the 
histories  that  commemorate  bygone  civilisations.  All 
things  decay  ;  the  knowledge  is  as  old  as  time,  and  as 
dull  as  philosophy.  But  what  a  poignancy  it  takes 
from  its  sudden  recognition  by  the  heart : 

Then  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make, 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go. 

The  poet  considers  all  expedients  that  promise  defence 
against  the  tyrant,  or  reprieve  from  his  doom.  With 
a  magniloquence  that  is  only  half-hearted  he  promises 
his  friend  a  perpetuity  of  life  "  where  breath  most 
breathes,  even  in  the  mouths  of  men."  But  he  knows 
this  to  be  a  losing  game  ;  the  monuments  and  memorials 
that  have  been  erected  against  the  ravages  of  Time 
are  of  no  effect,  save  to  supply  future  ages  with  new 
testimonies  to  his  omnipotence.  It  is  best  to  make 
terms  with  the  destroyer,  and,  while   submitting  to 


m.]  BOOKS  AND  POETRY  93 

him,  to  cheat  him  of  the  fulness  of  his  triumph  by 
handing  on  the  lamp  of  life : 

For  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make  defence, 
Save  breed,  to  brave  him  when  he  takes  thee  hence. 

This  is  a  mitigation  and  a  postponement  of  the  uni- 
versal doom,  but  it  gives  no  sure  ground  for  defiance. 
In  the  last  resort  the  only  stronghold  against  the 
enemy  is  found  in  the  love  which  is  its  own  reward, 
which  consoles  for  all  losses  and  disappointments,  which 
is  not  shaken  by  tempests  nor  obscured  by  clouds, 
which  is  truer  than  the  truth  of  history,  and  stronger 
than  the  strength  of  corruption.  Love  alone  is  not 
Time's  fool.  So  the  first  series  of  the  Sonnets  comes 
to  an  end  ;  and  there  follows  a  shorter  series,  some  of 
them  realistic  and  sardonic  and  coarse,  like  an  anti- 
Masque  after  the  gracious  ceremonial  Masque  of  the 
earlier  numbers.  In  this  series  is  painted  the  history 
of  lust,  its  short  delights,  its  violence,  its  gentler  inter- 
ludes, its  treachery,  and  the  torments  that  reward  it. 
There  is  little  relief  to  the  picture ;  the  savage  deceits 
of  lust  work  out  their  own  destiny,  and  leave  their 
victim  enlightened,  but  not  consoled  : 

For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair  ;  more  perjured  I, 
To  swear  against  the  truth  so  foul  a  lie  ! 

The  Poems  of  Shakespeare  in  no  way  modify  that 
conception  of  his  character  and  temper  which  a  dis- 
cerning reader  might  gather  from  the  evidence  of  the 
plays.  But  they  let  us  hear  his  voice  more  directly, 
without  the  intervening  barrier  of  the  drama,  and  they 
furnish  us  with  some  broken  hints  of  the  stormy  trials 
and  passions  which  helped  him  to  his  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart,  and  enriched  his  plays  with  the 
fruits  of  personal  experience. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   THEATRE 

In  the  Sonnets  Shakespeare  gave  expression  to  his 
own  thoughts  and  feelings,  shaping  the  stuff  of  his 
experience  by  the  laws  of  poetic  art,  to  the  ends  of 
poetic  beauty.  In  the  drama  the  same  experience  of 
life  supplied  him  with  his  material,  but  the  conditions 
that  beset  him  were  more  complex.  When  he  came 
to  London  he  had  his  way  to  make.  "  Lowliness  is 
young  ambition's  ladder,"  and  the  only  way  to  success 
was  by  conforming  to  the  prevalent  fashions  and 
usages.  Later,  when  he  had  won  success,  he  was 
free  to  try  new  experiments  and  to  modify  custom. 
But  he  began  as  an  apprentice  to  the  London  stage ; 
his  early  efforts  as  a  playwright  cannot  be  truly 
judged  except  in  relation  to  that  stage ;  and  even  his 
greatest  plays  show  a  careful  regard  for  the  strength 
and  weakness  of  the  instruments  that  lay  ready  to  his 
hand.  The  world  that  he  lived  in,  the  stage  that  he 
wrote  for,  these  have  left  their  mark  broad  on  his  plays, 
so  that  those  critics  who  study  him  in  a  philosophi- 
cal vacuum  are  always  liable  to  err  by  treating  the 
fashions  of  his  theatre  as  if  they  were  a  part  of  his 
creative  genius.  He  was  not  a  lordly  poet  who 
stooped  to  the  stage  and  dramatised  his  song ;  he 
was  bred  in  the  tiring-room  and  on  the  boards;  he 
was  an  actor  before  he  was  a  dramatist. 

94 


chap,  iv.]  THE  THEATRE  95 

The  dramatic  opportunities  of  Stratford  counted  for 
something  in  his  history.  Primitive  drama  flourishes 
everywhere  in  children's  games.  The  rural  communi- 
ties of  Elizabethan  England  did  not  leave  the  drama 
to  children,  but  enlivened  the  festivals  of  the  year 
with  ancient  plays  and  pastimes,  which  served  to 
break  the  dull  round  of  country  life.  The  Morris 
dance  was  a  kind  of  drama;  Shakespeare  knew  it 
well,  and  alludes  to  Maid  Marian  and  the  hobby- 
horse. The  rustic  play  of  St.  George  has  lasted  in 
quiet  districts  down  to  our  own  day;  Shakespeare 
had  often  been  entertained  by  this  uncouth  kind  of 
acting,  and  preserves  memories  of  it  in  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  or,  better,  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 
The  pageant  of  the  Nine  Worthies,  presented  by  the 
schoolmaster,  the  curate,  the  unlettered  Costard,  and 
the  refined  traveller  from  Spain,  is  a  fair  specimen  of 
the  dramatic  art  as  it  was  practised  in  villages.  The 
chief  business  of  each  actor  is  to  dress  himself  up  and 
explain  in  doggerel  rhyme  who  he  is.  Sir  Nathaniel, 
who  is  a  foolish,  mild  man,  and  a  good  bowler,  is 
something  over-weighted  with  the  part  of  Alexander. 
But  he  puts  on  his  armour  and  speaks  his  lines : 

When  in  the  world  I  liv'd,  I  was  the  world's  Commander  ; 
By  East,  West,  North,  and  South  I  spread  my  conquering 

might : 
My  Scutcheon  plain  declares  that  I  am  Alisander. 

Here  he  is  interrupted  by  Biron's  jests,  and,  after  a 
feeble  attempt  to  regain  the  thread  of  his  discourse 
by  beginning  all  over  again,  he  is  driven  off  the  stage 
by  Costard.  The  whole  pageant,  so  grievously  flouted 
and  interrupted,  is  probably  a  very  close  study  from 
the  life,  down  to  its  very  speeches,  which,  being 
written    by    the    schoolmaster,   are   full    of    classical 


96  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

allusion,  and  make  some  attempt  at  epigram.  Another 
type  of  drama,  more  ambitious  and  poetic,  was  not 
hard  to  come  at  in  Shakespeare's  childhood.  The 
cycles  of  Miracle  Plays  were  still  presented,  in  the 
early  summer,  by  the  trade-guilds  of  many  towns;  and 
it  may  be  that  Shakespeare  was  taken  by  his  father  to 
see  them  at  Coventry.  But  this  is  hardly  likely,  for 
his  trivial  allusions  to  them  bear  no  witness  to  the 
deep  impression  which  must  have  been  made  upon  an 
imaginative  child  by  that  strange  and  solemn  pageant, 
dragging  its  slow  length  along,  and  exhibiting  in 
selected  scenes  the  whole  drama  of  man,  his  creation, 
his  fall,  and  his  redemption. 

Spectacles  and  diversions  of  this  kind  belonged  to 
the  age  that  was  passing  away,  and  had  in  them  none 
of  the  intellectual  excitement  of  a  new  movement. 
It  was  otherwise  with  the  plays  and  interludes  pre- 
sented by  the  companies  of  travelling  players  who 
certainly  visited  Stratford.  These  men  belonged  to 
the  new  order;  their  plays  savoured  of  modern  wit 
and  modern  classical  enthusiasm.  The  manner  of 
their  performances  is  very  exactly  recorded  by  Shake- 
speare in  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  They  would 
present  themselves  to  the  steward  of  a  great  house, 
or  to  the  officer  of  a  corporation,  and  submit  a  list 
of  their  pieces,  with  a  request  to  be  allowed  to 
perform.  Just  as  Hamlet  compels  the  actors,  on  their 
arrival,  to  give  him  a  specimen  of  their  skill,  so 
Philostrate,  who  is  simply  an  Elizabethan  Master  of 
the  Revels,  takes  care,  when  the  rustics  come  with 
their  play,  to  hear  it  over  before  proposing  it  to  his 
master.  Then  he  recites  to  Theseus  a  list  of  the  en- 
tertainments provided  to  beguile  the  time  between 
supper  and  bed.  The  plays  are  all  mythological  in 
subject,  after  the  newest  mode.     The  battle  with  the 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  97 

Centaurs,  the  death  of  Orpheus,  the  lament  of  the 
Muses,  and  last,  the  ever-memorable  "tedious  brief 
scene"  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  are  the  items  on  the 
bill.  Theseus  having  made  his  choice,  there  is  a 
flourish  of  trumpets ;  the  Prologue  enters,  bespeaks 
the  goodwill  of  the  audience,  presents  to  them  each 
of  the  various  characters  who  are  to  appear  in  the 
play,  and,  for  their  better  understanding,  briefly 
summarises  the  plot.  Then  he  withdraws,  taking 
with  him  Thisbe,  the  Lion,  and  Moonshine,  who  are 
not  immediately  required,  while  Pyramus  and  the 
Wall  are  left  behind  to  begin  the  play.  Thus  were 
plays  performed  at  the  court  of  Duke  Theseus  of 
Athens ;  thus  also  were  they  given  in  the  town  hall 
of  Stratford,  before  the  magistrates  and  citizens  of 
the  borough.  The  habit  of  introducing  each  character 
to  the  audience  has  persisted  in  those  modern  plays 
where  the  business  of  the  drama  is  suspended  in  order 
that  a  popular  player  may  make  an  effective  entrance, 
and  establish  friendly  personal  relations  with  the  audi- 
ence. The  actors  of  Shakespeare's  time  were  no  more 
willing  than  their  successors  to  lose  themselves  in  the 
play. 

The  true  beginnings  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  are 
to  be  found  in  these  wandering  companies  of  noble- 
men's servants.  Even  in  Elizabeth's  reign,  a  great 
country  house,  like  Sir  Christopher  Hatton's  at 
Holdenby  in  Northamptonshire,  with  its  array  of  ten- 
ants and  retainers,  was  a  self-contained  community; 
and  the  business  of  supplying  merriment  on  festive 
occasions  fell  to  those  of  the  servants  and  dependants 
who  had  any  special  skill  or  aptitude  in  the  arts  of 
music,  dancing,  and  recitation.  Originally  these  ama- 
teur actors  and  musicians  were  content  with  their 
occasional  performances,  and  did  not  travel.     But  the 

H 


98  SHAKESPEAEE  [chap. 

decay  of  feudalism,  which  is  the  key  to  most  of  the 
political  and  literary  history  of  Tudor  and  Stuart 
times,  explains  the  sudden  good  fortunes  of  the  drama. 
The  gradual  disappearance  of  feudal  tenures,  the 
growth  of  towns,  the  enclosure  of  lands,  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  monasteries  —  all  these  changes  undermined 
the  old  life  of  the  country,  and  made  it  impossible  for 
noblemen  to  maintain  their  enormous  retinue  of  ser- 
vants and  beneficiaries.  The  literature  of  the  sixteenth 
century  resounds  with  the  complaints  of  those  who 
were  thrown  out  of  a  livelihood,  and  with  the  not  less 
bitter  complaints  of  those  who  suffered  at  the  hands 
of  lawless  and  masterless  men.  Meantime,  the  court 
and  the  town  offered  new  attractions  and  new  op- 
portunities to  gentle  and  simple  alike.  A  story  told 
in  The  Serving-Man's  Comfort,  a  pamphlet  of  1598, 
puts  the  position  in  a  nutshell.  A  certain  Earl  once 
presented  himself  at  the  court  of  King  Henry  viii., 
clad  in  a  jerkin  of  frieze  and  hose  of  country  russet, 
with  a  following  of  a  hundred  and  twenty  men,  all 
well  horsed  and  gallantly  furnished.  The  King  re- 
proved him  for  his  base  and  unseemly  apparel.  When 
he  next  came  to  court  he  wore  a  gown  of  black  velvet, 
the  sleeves  set  with  aglets  of  gold,  a  velvet  cap  with 
a  feather  and  gold  band,  bordered  with  precious  stones, 
a  suit  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  a  girdle  and  hangers  richly 
embroidered  and  set  with  pearl.  He  was  attended 
with  one  man  and  a  page.  "  Now,"  said  the  King, 
"  you  are  as  you  should  be ;  but  where  is  your  goodly 
train  of  men  and  horse  ?  "  "  If  it  may  like  your  Grace," 
answered  the  good  Earl,  throwing  down  his  cap,  "  here 
is  twenty  men  and  twenty  horse "  ;  then  throwing 
off  his  gown,  "  here  lies  forty  men  and  forty  horse 
more";  and  so  he  continued  until,  in  the  end,  he 
offered  the  King  a  choice  between  the  men  and  the 


iv.]  THE  THEATRE  99 

gay  apparel.     Buckingham  in  Henry  VIII.  expresses 

the  same  dilemma : 

O  many- 
Have  broke  their  backs  with  laying  manors  on  them 
For  this  great  journey. 

Here  is  an  epitome  of  the  Eenaissance  on  its  social 
side.  Money  was  taken  out  of  landed  estates  to  be 
put  into  the  chief  speculative  investment  of  that  age, 
gorgeous  personal  attire.  The  yeoman's  son  turned 
adventurer  and  went  to  London.  The  servants  of 
a  noble  house,  if  they  could  act  and  sing,  made  a 
profession  of  their  pastime,  and  wandered  over  the 
country,  ministering  to  the  rapidly  growing  taste  for 
pageants,  interludes,  and  music.  In  London  they 
found  their  best  market.  For  many  years  they  acted 
wherever  they  could  find  accommodation,  in  gardens, 
halls,  and  inn-yards.  Then  the  opposition  of  the  City 
authorities  drove  them  outside  the  walls;  in  the  play- 
ing-fields of  the  suburbs  they  found  it  easy  to  attract 
a  concourse  of  people ;  about  1576  they  erected  two 
permanent  enclosed  stages  in  Finsbury  Fields,  and 
the  Elizabethan  drama  had  found  its  birthplace. 

It  was  with  these  companies  of  actors  that  Shake- 
speare from  the  first  had  to  deal ;  and  already,  before 
he  knew  them,  they  had  attained  a  high  degree  of  pro- 
ficiency in  their  business.  They  were  encouraged  by 
their  own  masters,  applauded  by  the  populace,  and 
favoured  by  the  Court.  The  history  of  Eichard  Tarl- 
ton,  the  most  famous  of  Elizabethan  comic  actors, 
who  died  in  1588,  shows  that  before  Shakespeare's 
time  diligent  search  was  made  for  likely  talent  to 
reinforce  the  profession.  Tarlton,  according  to  Fuller's 
account,  was  born  at  Condover  in  Shropshire,  and  "  was 
in  the  field,  keeping  his  father's  swine,  wThen  a  servant 
of  Robert,  Earl  of  Leicester,  passing  this  way  to  his 


100  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

Lord's  lands  in  his  Barony  of  Denbighe,  was  so  highly 
pleased   with    his    happy  unhappy  answers,   that   he 
brought  him   to   Court,   where   he   became  the  most 
famous  jester  to  Queen  Elizabeth."     The  actors  long 
retained   the   double    position;    like   his    even   more 
famous    predecessor,    Will   Summer,   Tarlton   was   a 
servant   of   Royalty,    but,   unlike   Will    Summer,   he 
was   also   a  professional   actor,  and  catered  for  the 
public  in  the  newly  built  theatres  of  London.     The 
jesters    were,    without    doubt,   the    bright   particular 
stars  of  the  companies  to  which  they  belonged,  the 
most  popular  of  the  actors,  and  the  best  remunerated. 
They   were   able   to    entertain   an    audience   without 
assistance  from  others  and  Tarlton's  pipe  and  tabor, 
his  monologues  and  impromptus  and  jigs,  were  the 
delight  of  the  public  at  the  time  when  Shakespeare 
came  to  London.     One  of  these  jigs,  wherein  each  of 
the  short  verses  was  satirically  directed  at  this  or  that 
member  of  the  audience,  has  the  refrain  "  So  pipeth 
the  crow,  Sitting  upon  a  wall,  —  Please  one,  and  please 
all."     This  refrain  is  quoted  by  Malvolio  in  Twelfth 
Night,  —  "  it  is  with  me  as  the  very  true  Sonnet  is :  Please 
one,  and  please  all."     When  Tarlton  died,  Will  Kemp, 
whom  we  know  to  have   been   the   impersonator  of 
Dogberry,  succeeded  almost  at  once  to  his  place  in 
popular  favour,  while  only  less  famous  than   Kemp 
were    Cowley,    Armin,   and    many   others.      A   good 
illustration   of   the   extraordinary  mimetic   skill   dis- 
played by  these  comic  actors  may  be  found  in  Twelfth 
Night,  where  the  Clown,  to  deceive  Malvolio  in  the 
prison,   first   assumes   the   voice   of   the   parson,    Sir 
Topas,  and  then  carries  on  a  dialogue,  in  two  voices, 
between  the  parson  and   himself.     The  same  clown 
contributes  almost  all  of  the  exquisite  songs,  romantic 
and  comic,  which  fill  the  play  with  music. 


iv.]  THE  THEATRE  101 

The  question  of  the  mixture  of  Tragedy  and 
Comedy  in  the  Elizabethan  drama  is  therefore  very 
simple  :  it  was  a  question  not  of  propriety  and  classical 
precedent,  but  of  necessity.  The  people  would  have 
their  favourites ;  and  when  the  old  variety  entertain- 
ments of  the  early  London  stages  gave  place  to  serious 
drama,  room  had  to  be  made  for  the  most  famous 
actors.  If  Shakespeare  held  any  high  and  dry  theories 
of  the  drama,  his  thoughts  can  only  have  been  a  pain 
to  him.  He  made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  in  some 
of  his  plays —  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  As  You  Like  It, 
Twelfth  Night,  King  Lear — he  gave  a  magnificent 
largess  to  the  professional  clown.  But  there  are  not 
wanting  signs  that  he  was  troubled  by  the  exorbi- 
tance of  his  comedians,  who  had  climbed  into  popular 
favour  by  their  jests  and  ditties,  their  grimaces  and 
impromptus.  "  Let  those  that  play  your  clowns," 
says  Hamlet,  "speak  no  more  than  is  set  down  for 
them:  for  there  be  of  them,  that  will  themselves 
laugh,  to  set  on  some  quantity  of  barren  spectators 
to  laugh  too,  though  in  the  meantime  some  necessary 
question  of  the  play  be  then  to  be  considered :  that's 
villainous,  and  shows  a  most  pitiful  ambition  in  the 
fool  that  uses  it."  It  is  not  likely  that  this  counsel 
of  perfection  was  observed  by  the  actors.  Some  of 
the  tags  spoken  at  the  close  of  scenes  by  the  Fool  in 
King  Lear  are  directed  at  the  audience,  and  are 
quite  irrelevant  and  worthless;  these  are  either 
unlicensed  interpolations  which  have  crept  into  the 
text,  or  a  contemptuous  alms  thrown  to  the  Fool, 
to  be  spoken  when,  being  alone  upon  the  stage,  he 
could  do  but  little  hurt  to  the  necessary  business 
of  the  play.  In  some  of  the  plays  the  Fool  is 
isolated,  to  avoid  the  risk  of  his  interference.  Peter, 
in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  is  free  to  disport  himself  with  the 


102  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

musicians  downstairs,  or  to  attend  the  Nurse  in 
Juliet's  absence.  The  Clown  in  Othello  has  so  poor 
a  part,  in  a  single  scene  with  Cassio,  that  a  comic 
actor  of  ability  could  hardly  be  expected  to  refrain 
from  eking  it  out  with  invention.  The  Porter  in 
Macbeth  gets  the  like  hard  measure ;  he  is  not  allowed 
to  play  the  fool  anywhere  but  at  his  own  gate. 
Shakespeare  was  often  severe  with  his  clowns  ;  and 
it  is  plain  that  he  recognised  those  advantages  of 
tragic  simplicity  which  were  sometimes  denied  to  him 
by  the  very  conditions  of  his  work. 

"When  the  first  regular  theatres  were  built,  they 
were  used  not  only  for  the  playing  of  interludes,  but 
for  all  those  activities  which  had  previously  been  dis- 
played either  on  raised  scaffolds  or  within  improvised 
spaces  in  the  fields.  The  citizens  delighted  in  exhibi- 
tions of  juggling,  tumbling,  fencing,  and  wrestling; 
and  these  also  were  provided  by  the  drama.  Shake- 
speare is  profuse  in  his  concessions  to  the  athletic 
interest.  The  wrestling-match  in  As  You  Like  It,  the 
rapier  duels  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  in  Hamlet,  the 
broadsword  fight  in  Macbeth,  —  these  were  real  displays 
of  skill  by  practised  combatants.  The  whole  First 
Act  of  Coriolanus  is  so  full  of  alarums  and  excursions 
and  hand-to-hand  fighting,  with  hard  blows  given 
and  taken,  that  it  is  tedious  to  Shakespeare's  modern 
admirers,  but  it  gave  keen  pleasure  to  the  patrons  of 
the  Globe.  Tlie  Comedy  of  Errors  is  noisy  with  beatings 
and  the  outcries  of  the  victims.  All  these  things, 
though  it  discolour  the  complexion  of  his  greatness  to 
acknowledge  it,  were  imposed  upon  Shakespeare  by 
the  tastes  and  habits  of  his  patrons  and  by  the  fashions 
of  the  primitive  theatre.  It  was  on  this  robust  stock 
that  his  towering  thought  and  his  delicate  fancy  were 
grafted. 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  103 

When  he  first  arrived  in  London,  the  drama  was  at 
the  crisis  of  its  early  history.  Acting  had  flourished, 
throughout  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  in  many  places  and 
in  the  most  diverse  kinds.  The  performance  of  plays 
written  in  imitation  of  Seneca  for  tragedy,  and  of 
Plautus  for  comedy,  had  the  approval  of  scholars,  and 
was  a  recognised  entertainment  at  the  universities  and 
the  Inns  of  Court.  In  still  higher  circles,  comedies 
based  on  mythological  and  classical  themes  were  acted 
chiefly  by  companies  of  singing  boys  —  the  Children  of 
Paul's  or  the  Children  of  the  Chapel  Koyal.  The 
native  comic  tradition  was  unbroken  from  the  earliest 
times,  and  even  in  these  courtly  comedies  room  was 
made  for  the  antics  of  the  Vice  and  the  Clown.  But 
tragedy  was  a  new  thing  in  England,  little  understood, 
and  not  much  relished.  It  had  found  the  dreariest  of 
models  in  Seneca,  who  values  tragic  situation  only  as 
a  peg  on  which  to  hang  the  commentaries  of  a  teacher 
of  rhetoric  and  philosophy.  The  first  English  tragedy, 
Gorboduc,  is  an  academic  debate  on  certain  problems 
of  conduct  arising  out  of  an  ancient  story ;  and  the 
same  Senecan  model  was  placidly  followed  by  Samuel 
Daniel  and  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brooke,  long  after 
the  rise  of  the  newer  school.  But  for  the  accident  of 
genius,  tragedy  in  England  might  have  continued  as 
an  imitative  exercise,  practised  chiefly  by  argumenta- 
tive philosophers. 

What  happened  is  so  well  known  that  it  has  almost 
lost  its  wonder.  A  band  of  young  men  from  the 
universities  threw  away  their  academic  pride,  and 
invaded  the  popular  stages,  which  had  hitherto  been 
chiefly  catered  for  by  clowns  and  jugglers  and  players 
of  short  comic  interludes.  They  were  not  scholars, 
in  any  strict  sense  of  that  word :  Marlowe,  Peele, 
Greene,   and   Lodge   belong   to   that   numerous  class 


104  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

who,  in  the  words  of  Anthony  a  Wood,  "  did  in  a 
manner  neglect  academical  studies."  But  they  had 
been  caught  by  the  Latin  poets,  and  were  eager 
students  of  the  new  literature  of  the  Renaissance  in 
Italy,  France,  and  Spain.  In  London,  as  at  Oxford 
and  Cambridge,  the  more  regular  avenues  of  prefer- 
ment were  closed  to  them,  and  they  were  put  to  their 
shifts  for  a  livelihood.  To  write  for  the  booksellers, 
supplying  them  with  poems,  love-pamphlets,  and 
translations,  was  the  obvious  resource ;  the  hard- 
earned  gains  of  authorship  might  be  handsomely 
increased  by  any  one  who  was  lucky  enough  to  find 
a  generous  patron.  But  before  they  had  been  long 
in  London  they  must  have  made  acquaintance  with  a 
newly  risen  class  of  men,  who  lived  at  an  easier  rate. 
Those  "  glorious  vagabonds,"  the  stage-players,  were 
conspicuous  in  the  streets  of  the  town, 

Sweeping  it  in  their  glaring  satin  suits, 
And  pages  to  attend  their  masterships. 

Greene,  in  his  Groatsworth  of  Wit,  tells  how  he  was 
first  invited  to  write  for  the  stage.  A  player,  mag- 
nificently dressed,  like  a  gentleman  of  great  living, 
overheard  him  repeating  some  verses,  and  offered  him 
lodging  and  employment.  The  player,  by  his  own 
account,  was  both  actor  and  dramatic  author.  Besides 
playing  the  King  of  the  Fairies,  he  had  borne  a 
part  in  TJie  Twelve  Labours  of  Hercules  and  in  a  piece 
called  The  Devil  on  the  Highway  to  Heaven.  His 
own  works  were  Morality  plays,  suitable  for  country 
audiences  ;  the  two  that  he  mentions  were  entitled 
TJie  Moral  of  Mart's  Wit  and  The  Dialogue  of  Dives. 
But  these  educational  plays,  he  said,  had  fallen  out  of 
esteem,  and  there  was  room  for  the  newer  inventions 
of  a   scholar.     Greene  went   along  with    him;   and, 


iv.]  THE  THEATRE  105 

lodging  "  at  the  town's  end,  in  a  house  of  retail,"  soon 
became  famous  as  "  an  arch  play-making  poet,"  and 
learned  to  associate  with  the  lewdest  persons  in  the 
land. 

There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  autobiographical 
truth  of  this  account.  But  Greene  was  not  the  first, 
nor  the  greatest,  of  the  innovators.  The  credit  of 
transforming  the  popular  drama  belongs  chiefly  to 
Marlowe.  Before  his  arrival  Lyly  had  shown  the  way 
to  make  classical  mythology  engaging,  and  Peele  had 
used  blank  verse  so  that  it  rang  in  the  ear  and  dwelt 
in  the  memory.  The  work  of  these  men  was  designed 
for  select  courtly  circles,  and  left  the  wider  public 
untouched.  Marlowe  appealed  to  the  people.  He 
brought  blank  verse  on  to  the  public  stage  and  sent  it 
echoing  through  the  town.  He  proved  that  classical 
fable  needs  no  dictionary  to  make  it  popular.  Above 
all,  he  imagined  great  and  serious  actions,  and  created 
the  heroic  character.  His  play  of  Tamburlaine,  pro- 
duced about  1587,  made  subtle  appeal  to  the  national 
interests,  to  the  love  of  adventure  in  far  countries, 
and  to  the  indomitable  heart  of  youth.  The  success 
of  this  play  is  perhaps  the  greatest  event  in  our  literary 
history.  It  naturalised  tragedy  in  England,  and  put 
an  end,  at  a  blow,  to  all  the  futilities  of  the  theorists. 
More  important  still,  it  vindicated  audacity,  and  taught 
poets  to  believe  in  the  conquest  of  the  world.  Like 
all  great  and  original  works  which  catch  the  happy 
moment,  it  was  multiplied  in  its  echoes,  and  rapidly 
became  a  school.  Marlowe's  friends  and  fellows 
accepted  his  lead,  recognised  his  triumph,  and  aban- 
doned their  own  less  fortunate  experiments  to  claim 
a  share  in  his  success.  Kyd's  Spanish  Tragedy  almost 
vied  with  Tamburlaine  in  popular  favour,  and  the  most 
extravagant  ventures  of  Peele  and  Greene  and  Nashe 


106  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

were  carried  to  victory  on  the  same  tide.  While  his 
companions  imitated  his  earliest  work  Marlowe  put  it 
behind  him,  and  advanced  to  new  triumphs.  During 
the  few  remaining  years  of  his  short  life  he  produced 
Dr.  Faustus,  The  Jew  of  Malta,  and  Edward  II  — not  to 
speak  of  his  poems  and  unfinished  plays.  He  died  in 
1593,  the  year  of  the  publication  of  Shakespeare's 
Venus  and  Adonis. 

During  the  last  seven  years  or  so  of  Marlowe's  life 
Shakespeare  was  learning  his  business  in  London.  No 
hint  or  fragment  of  a  record  remains  to  instruct  us 
concerning  his  professional  doings  until  near  the  end 
of  this  period.  Many  fanciful  histories  of  these  years 
have  been  written,  rich  in  detail,  built  on  guesses 
and  inferences.  The  broad  facts  of  the  case  have  too 
often  been  hidden  under  these  speculative  structures  ; 
and  they  are  worth  remembering,  for  though  they  lend 
themselves  to  no  sectarian  conclusions,  and  lead  to 
no  brilliant  discoveries,  they  set  a  vague  and  half- 
obliterated  picture  in  a  true  perspective. 

Shakespeare's  beginnings  were  not  courtly,  but 
popular.  He  was  plunged  into  the  wild  Bohemian 
life  of  actors  and  dramatists  at  a  time  when  nothing 
was  fixed  or  settled,  when  every  month  brought  forth 
some  new  thing,  and  popularity  was  the  only  road  to 
success.  There  was  fierce  rivalry  among  the  companies 
of  actors  to  catch  the  public  ear.  Tragedy  acknow- 
ledged one  man  for  master  ;  and  a  new  school  of  actors 
was  growing  up  to  meet  the  demand  for  poetic  decla- 
mation. Comedy,  the  older  foundation,  was  unchanged, 
and  remained  in  the  hands  of  the  professional  jesters. 
No  new  comic  genius  had  arisen  to  share  supremacy 
with  Marlowe.  Those  who  supplied  the  public  with 
plays  endeavoured  to  combine  as  many  as  possible  of 
the  resources  of  the  stage  in  a  single  dramatic  work. 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  107 

Their  reward  was  found  in  crowded  theatres,  not  in 
literary  reputation.  Force,  stridency,  loud  jesting  and 
braggart  declamation  carried  the  day,  and  left  no  room 
for  the  daintiness  of  the  literary  conscience.  The  peo- 
ple, intoxicated  with  the  new  delight,  craved  inces- 
santly for  fresh  stimulants  ;  a  play  ran  for  but  a  few 
days,  then  it  was  laid  aside  and  a  new  one  was  hastily 
put  together  out  of  any  material  that  came  to  hand. 
History  and  fiction  were  ransacked  for  stories  ;  old 
plays  were  refurbished  and  patched  with  no  regard 
to  their  authorship ;  a  play  written  by  one  man  and 
found  to  be  lacking  in  some  element  of  popular  suc- 
cess was  altered  and  supplemented  by  another  man. 
If  Ben  Jonson  had  made  his  first  acquaintance  with 
the  stage  at  the  time  when  Shakespeare  came  to  Lon- 
don, he  would  probably  have  withdrawn  in  disgust 
from  the  attempt  to  impose  dignity  and  order  on  this 
noisy,  motley  world;  he  would  have  sought  refuge 
with  the  pedants  and  academicians,  and  the  national 
drama  would  have  lost  him.  Shakespeare  accepted 
the  facts,  and  subdued  his  hand  to  what  it  worked  in. 
When  he  first  comes  into  notice  as  a  dramatist,  in 
1592,  he  is  accused  by  the  dying  Greene  of  gaining 
credit  for  himself  by  vamping  the  plays  of  better  men. 
In  the  attempt  to  make  mischief  between  his  fellow- 
dramatists  and  Shakespeare,  Greene  uses  language 
which  proves  that  Shakespeare  was  in  closer  touch 
with  the  players  than  the  University  wits  had  ever 
been.  "  Yes,  trust  them  not :  for  there  is  an  upstart 
Crow,  beautified  with  our  feathers,  that  with  his 
Tiger's  heart  wrapt  in  a  Player's  hide,  supposes  he  is  as 
well  able  to  bumbast  out  a  blank  verse  as  the  best  of 
you  :  and  being  an  absolute  Johannes  factotum,  is  in 
his  own  conceit  the  only  Shakescene  in  a  country." 
The  line  from  Henry  VI.  which  is  here  parodied  by 


108  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

Greene  points  his  railing  against  that  play,  and  gives 
us  our  first  sure  date  in  Shakespeare's  dramatic  history. 
If  now  we  turn  to  the  collection  of  Shakespeare's 
plays  in  the  Folio,  we  find  that  the  conditions  under 
which  his  work  was  done  are  only  too  faithfully 
reflected  in  that  volume.  More  than  one  or  two  of 
these  plays,  as  they  stand  in  the  Folio,  are,  to  put  it 
bluntly,  bad  plays  ;  poor  and  confused  in  structure,  or 
defaced  with  feeble  writing.  Some  of  them  contain 
whole  scenes  written  in  Shakespeare's  most  splendid 
manner,  and  fully  conceived  characters  drawn  with  all 
his  vigour,  while  other  scenes  and  other  characters  in 
the  same  play  pass  the  bounds  of  inanity.  There  is 
an  attractive  simplicity  about  the  criticism  which 
attributes  all  that  is  good  to  Shakespeare,  and  all 
that  is  bad  to  "  an  inferior  hand."  On  this  principle 
Titus  Andronicus  has  been  stoutly  alleged  to  contain 
no  single  line  of  Shakespeare's  composing.  But  if  once 
we  are  foolishly  persuaded  to  go  behind  the  authority 
of  Heminge  and  Condell  (reinforced,  in  the  case  of 
Titus,  by  the  testimony  of  Francis  Meres),  we  have  lost 
our  only  safe  anchorage,  and  are  afloat  upon  a  wild  and 
violent  sea,  subject  to  every  wind  of  doctrine.  No 
critical  ear,  however  highly  respected,  can  safely  set 
itself  up  against  the  evidence  of  Shakespeare's  friends. 
It  is  wiser  to  believe  that  the  plays  in  the  Folio  were 
attributed  to  Shakespeare  either  because  they  were 
wholly  his,  or  because  they  were  recast  and  rewritten 
by  him,  or,  lastly,  because  they  contain  enough  of 
his  work  to  warrant  the  attribution.  Even  so,  there 
is  a  wide  margin  for  conjecture,  and  the  case  would 
be  desperate  were  it  not  for  one  significant  consola- 
tion. None  of  the  plays  which  have  been  shown  to 
belong  to  the  middle  period  of  Shakespeare's  career, 
including  his  maturer  histories  and  comedies,  and  most 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  109 

of  the  great  tragedies,  has  ever  been  challenged.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  plays  of  his  early  period,  and  a 
good  many  of  those  belonging  to  his  later  period  from 
Macbeth  and  Timon  onwards,  are  involved  in  contro- 
versy. The  conclusions  generally  accepted  by  criticism 
may  be  broadly  stated.  At  the  beginning  of  his  career 
Shakespeare  made  very  free  use  of  the  work  of  other 
men,  and,  moreover,  sometimes  reshaped  his  own  work, 
so  that  it  is  often  difficult  to  assess  the  extent  of  his 
rights  in  the  play  as  we  have  it.  Towards  the  end 
of  his  career  his  work  is  once  more  found  mixed 
with  the  work  of  other  men,  but  this  time  there  is 
generally  reason  to  suspect  that  it  is  these  others  who 
have  laid  him  under  contribution,  altering  his  com- 
pleted plays,  or  completing  his  unfinished  work  by 
additions  of  their  own.  Yet  a  third  case  of  difficulty 
arises  when  a  play  which  bears  throughout  the  strong- 
est marks  of  Shakespeare's  workmanship  is  disparate 
in  its  parts,  and  hangs  ill  together.  Further  questions 
spring  from  these.  How  far  have  we  to  reckon  with 
willing  collaboration,  early  and  late  ?  Who  were  the 
authors  of  the  anonymous  plays  that  he  used  as  the 
basis  of  some  of  his  own  early  work  ?  To  what  extent 
were  his  dramas  modified  for  representation  on  the 
stage  during  the  years  intervening  between  their  first 
appearance  and  the  publication  of  the  Folio ;  and  in 
how  many  cases  were  these  modified  versions  printed 
by  the  editors  of  the  Folio? 

To  answer  these  questions  in  detail  is  the  business 
of  Shakespeare  criticism.  The  results  obtained  by  the 
most  laborious  scholars  command  no  general  assent, 
and  depend,  for  the  most  part,  on  a  chain  of  ingenious 
hypotheses.  If  marks  of  interrogation  were  inserted 
in  all  treatises  on  Shakespeare  at  all  the  points  where 
modesty  demands  them,  the   syntax  of   these  works 


110  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

would  be  sadly  broken.  To  keep  the  mind  open  when 
there  is  no  sufficient  warrant  for  closing  it  is  the  rarest 
of  human  achievements.  The  difficult  task  shall  here 
be  attempted;  and  a  few  brief  illustrations  of  the 
nature  of  these  knotty  problems  must  serve  in  place 
of  a  more  ambitious  edifice. 

TJie  Taming  of  the  Shrew  was  first  printed  in  the 
Folio.  There  are  no  contemporary  references  to  it, 
and  it  contains  no  allusions  which  can  be  used  to 
determine  its  date,  but  it  has  many  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  Shakespeare's  early  work.  The  plot  is 
double,  combining  two  stories  from  different  sources. 
That  part  of  the  play  which  tells  the  story  of  Bianca 
and  her  lovers  has,  for  very  flimsy  reasons,  been 
denied  by  some  critics  to  Shakespeare.  The  scenes 
wherein  Katherine  and  Petruchio  appear  are  un- 
doubtedly his  ;  and  these  scenes  are  exactly  modelled 
on  an  extant  comedy  of  1594,  called  TJie  Taming  of  a 
Shrew.  This  earlier  play  is  hasty  and  vigorous  in 
execution ;  it  has  not  the  full  flow  of  Shakespeare's 
eloquence  ;  its  language  is  rude  in  the  comic  parts, 
and  the  more  serious  speeches  are  written  in  a 
parody  of  the  style  of  Marlowe,  which,  by  some  sly 
touches  of  exaggeration,  is  delightfully  adapted  to  the 
purposes  of  comedy.  The  play  is  nevertheless  a  work 
of  comic  genius  ;  and  contains,  without  exception,  all 
the  ludicrous  situations  which  are  the  making  of 
Shakespeare's  comedy.  The  wild  behaviour  of  Petru- 
chio at  his  wedding,  the  tantalising  of  the  hungry  bride 
with  imaginary  meats,  and  the  riotous  scene  with  the 
tailor,  are  essentially  the  same  in  both  plays,  and 
give  occasion  for  many  identical  turns  of  wit.  In  the 
earlier  play,  as  in  the  later,  Katherine  submits  to  her 
lord  by  accepting  his  opinion  on  the  question  of  the 
sun  and  moon,  and  when  he  indulges  his  humour  by 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  111 

pretending  that  an  old  man  is  a  young  budding  virgin, 
she  falls  in  with  his  mad  fancy  and  outgoes  him  in 
gaiety.     "  Fair  Lady,"  she  says  to  the  greybeard, 

Wrap  up  thy  radiations  in  some  cloud, 
Lest  that  thy  beauty  make  this  stately  town 
Inhabitable,  like  the  burning  zone, 
With  sweet  reflections  of  thy  lovely  face. 

Further,  the  whole  business  of  the  Induction  and  the 
humours  of  Christopher  Sly  are  already  full-grown  in 
the  earlier  play,  which  contains  some  passages  worthy 
of  Shakespeare  yet  omitted  in  the  later  version. 
When  the  Duke,  in  the  course  of  the  action,  orders 
two  of  the  characters  to  be  taken  to  prison,  Sly  wakes 
up,  at  the  word,  from  his  drunken  sleep,  and  protests  : 
"  I  say  we  '11  have  no  sending  to  prison."  In  vain  the 
Lords  remind  him  that  this  is  but  a  play,  acted  in  jest ; 
he  is  firm  in  his  resolve :  "  I  tell  thee,  Sim,  we  '11  have 
no  sending  to  prison,  that 's  flat :  why,  Sim,  am  not 
I  Don  Christo  Vary  ?  Therefore  I  say  they  shall  not 
go  to  prison."  When  at  last  he  is  assured  that  they 
have  run  away,  he  is  mollified,  calls  for  some  more 
drink,  orders  the  play  to  proceed,  and  resumes  his 
slumbers. 

If  the  Bianca  scenes  are  not  his,  Shakespeare  is 
thus  left  with  nothing  but  a  reviser's  share  in  the 
stronger  part  of  the  play.  But  who  wrote  the  play  of 
1594  ?  Among  the  authors  who  were  then  writing  for 
the  stage  we  know  of  only  one  man  who  was  certainly 
capable  of  writing  it,  and  that  man  is  Shakespeare 
himself.  If  his  authorship  of  it  could  be  proved,  it 
would  be  a  document  of  the  very  highest  value  as 
a  sample  of  the  work  that  he  did  in  his  early  time. 
In  the  absence  of  such  proof,  the  assumption  that  he 
wrote  it  could  only  serve  as  a  new  sandy  site  for  the 


112  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

fabric  of  conjecture.  The  play,  whoever  wrote  it, 
helps  us  to  a  knowledge  of  the  early  London  theatre. 
It  is  not  much  more  than  half  as  long  as  Shakespeare's 
later  version,  and  was  acted  by  the  Earl  of  Pembroke's 
servants.  Its  author,  writing  at  a  time  when  the 
bragging  blank  verse  of  Marlowe  had  become  the 
common  theatrical  jargon,  yet  shows  himself  conscious 
of  the  unfitness  of  these  heroics  for  the  portrayal  of 
daily  life,  and  gently  topples  them  over  into  absurdity. 
He  has  a  firm  hold  on  reality,  a  rich  store  of  colloquial 
speech,  and  a  wonderful  fertility  in  the  invention  of 
comic  situation.  In  all  these  respects  he  resembles 
Shakespeare,  who  gradually  freed  himself  from  the 
influence  of  Marlowe  and  indulged  his  own  more 
humane  genius,  until  the  style  made  fashionable  by 
Marlowe's  imitators  is  found  at  last,  in  Hamlet,  to  be 
fit  only  for  the  ranting  speeches  of  the  players,  and 
the  admiring  criticism  of  Polonius. 

The  questions  that  arise  in  connection  with  Shake- 
speare's later  work  may  be  well  illustrated  by  the  case 
of  Timon  of  Athens.  This  play  also  occurs  only  in  the 
Folio,  and  cannot  be  exactly  dated.  It  is  usually  placed 
after  the  four  great  tragedies,  and  immediately  before 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  —  that  is  to  say,  about  the 
year  1607.  In  one  respect  it  is  utterly  unlike  these 
neighbours.  There  is  no  other  play  of  Shakespeare's 
with  so  simple  a  plot.  Timon  of  Athens  is  the  exhibition 
of  a  single  character  in  contrasted  situations.  Timon 
is  rich  and  generous,  which  is  matter  for  the  First  Act; 
his  riches  and  his  friends  fail  him  in  the  Second  and 
Third  Acts ;  he  retires  to  a  desert  place  outside  the 
city,  curses  mankind,  and  dies,  which  climax  is  the 
theme  of  the  Fourth  and  Fifth  Acts.  There  is  nothing 
in  all  Shakespeare's  work  more  stupendous  than  the 
colossal  figure  of  Timon,  raining  his  terrible  impreca- 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  113 

tions  on  the  littleness  and  falsehood  of  mankind.  Yet 
the  play  as  a  whole  is  unsatisfying,  because  the  cause 
is  inadequate  to  produce  the  effect.  No  one  can  read 
the  play  and  believe  that  Shakespeare  intended  a 
satire  on  misanthropy:  Timon's  passion  is  heart- 
rending and  awe-inspiring;  desolation  and  despair 
never  spoke  with  more  convincing  accents.  Yet 
when  we  examine  the  events  that  lead  up  to  the  crisis, 
and  the  characters  who  are  grouped  around  Timon,  they 
seem  like  excuses  and  shadows,  hastily  sketched  as 
a  kind  of  conventional  framework  for  the  great  central 
figure.  The  machinery  is  carelessly  put  together,  and 
the  writing,  in  these  outlying  parts  of  the  play,  is 
often  flat.  The  critics  have  been  busy  with  this  case, 
and  have  called  in  the  inevitable  collaborator.  Some 
of  them  generously  allow  Shakespeare  two  helpers 
(Rowley  is  always  a  useful  supplementary  name),  and 
divide  up  the  play  line  by  line,  assigning  their  exact 
portions  to  the  lion,  the  ape,  and  the  beast  of  burden. 
The  problem  is  a  very  difficult  one,  and  these  con- 
jectures are  ingenious,  but  have  not  led  to  a  convincing 
result.  They  are  vitiated  by  the  superstition  which 
refuses  to  assign  to  Shakespeare  any  hasty  or  careless 
work.  Yet  he  was  a  purveyor  to  the  public  stage, 
and  surely  must  have  been  pressed,  as  the  modern 
journalist  is  pressed,  to  supply  needed  matter. 
Many  authors  who  have  suffered  this  pressure  have 
settled  their  account  with  their  conscience  by  dividing 
their  work  into  two  kinds.  Some  of  it  they  do  frankly 
as  journey-work,  making  it  as  good  as  time  and  circum- 
stances permit.  The  rest  they  keep  by  them,  revising 
and  polishing  it  to  satisfy  their  own  more  exacting 
ideals.  Shakespeare  did  both  kinds  of  work,  and  the 
bulk  of  his  writing  has  come  down  to  us  without 
distinction  made  between  the  better  and  the  worse. 


114  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

This  consideration  should  be  kept  in  mind  by  those  who 
profess  ability  to  recognise  his  style.  The  style  of  an 
author  and  the  changes  in  his  style  are  fairly  easy  to 
recognise  when  we  have  to  do  only  with  a  sequence  of 
works  carefully  written,  and  put  forth  over  his  own 
name.  The  problem  would  be  enormously  compli- 
cated if  his  most  careless  talk  and  his  most  hurried 
business  letters  were  included  in  the  account.  And 
the  problem  has  been  complicated  in  Shakespeare's 
case  by  the  pressure  of  theatrical  conditions. 

These  conditions  are  visible  in  their  results.  There 
is  good  reason  to  think  that  many  of  his  comedies  are 
recasts  of  his  own  earlier  versions,  now  lost  to  us.  It 
is  wrong  to  suppose  that  these  earlier  versions  were 
revised  from  motives  of  literary  pride.  The  early 
Taming  of  a  Shreiv  and  the  first  version  of  Hamlet 
point  the  way  to  a  more  likely  conclusion.  When  the 
theatre  came  to  its  maturity,  complete  five-act  plays, 
with  two  plots  and  everything  handsome  about  them, 
were  required  to  fill  the  afternoon.  The  earlier  and 
slighter  plays  and  interludes  were  then  enlarged  and 
adapted  to  the  new  demands.  It  was  not  easy,  even 
for  Shakespeare,  to  supply  his  best  work,  freshly 
wrought  from  fresh  material,  at  the  rate  of  two  plays  a 
year.  For  certain  marvellous  years  he  almost  did  it ; 
and,  as  likely  as  not,  the  effort  killed  him.  The  Vicar 
of  Stratford  says  that  he  died  of  a  drinking-bout,  but 
a  drinking-bout  seldom  gives  more  than  a  coup  de 
grace.  No  man,  not  even  one  who  was  only  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels,  could  live  through  the  work  that 
Shakespeare  did,  from  Hamlet  to  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
without  paying  for  it  in  health.  He  must  have  bowed 
under  the  strain,  "  unless  his  nerves  were  brass  or 
hammered  steel."  But  the  theatre,  having  devoured 
the  products  of  his  intense  labour,  was  as  hungry  as 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  115 

ever,  and  unremitting  in  its  demands.  In  Timon  of 
Athens  we  see  how  these  demands  were  met.  The 
close  likeness  between  Timon  and  King  Lear  has  often 
been  noticed,  so  that  it  is  not  unfair  to  say  that  in 
King  Lear  Shakespeare  treated  the  very  theme  of 
Timon,  and  treated  it  better,  with  all  added  circum- 
stances of  likelihood.  The  passion  of  the  lonely  old 
king  on  the  heath  passes  by  degrees  into  the  fiercest 
misanthropy,  but  it  carries  our  sympathy  with  it,  for 
we  have  watched  it  from  its  beginning,  and  have  been 
made  to  feel  the  cruelty  of  the  causes  that  provoked  it. 
After  King  Lear,  nothing  new  could  be  made  of  the 
same  figure  in  a  weaker  setting.  But  if,  as  seems 
likely,  Timon  is  a  first  sketch  of  Iting  Lear,  set  aside 
unfinished  because  the  story  proved  intractable  and  no 
full  measure  of  sympathy  could  be  demanded  for  its 
hero,  the  position  is  explained.  Shakespeare,  the 
artist,  had  no  further  use  for  Timon  ;  Shakespeare,  the 
popular  playwright,  laid  his  hand  on  the  discarded 
fragment  of  a  play,  and  either  expanded  it  himself,  or, 
more  probably,  permitted  another  to  expand  it,  to  the 
statutory  bulk  of  five  acts. 

This  conclusion  might  be  strengthened  by  several 
parallel  instances,  which  justify  us  in  believing  that 
Shakespeare  sometimes  made  more  than  one  attempt 
at  the  treatment  of  a  dramatic  theme,  and  that  his 
failures,  so  to  call  them,  were  subsequently  pieced  out 
with  other  matter,  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  theatre. 
One  instance  must  suffice.  Incomparably  the  most 
popular  love-story  of  the  earlier  sixteenth  century  was 
the  story  of  Troilus  and  Cressida.  To  a  young  man 
seeking  for  a  dramatic  subject  this  theme  couid  not  fail 
to  occur.  It  is  handled  by  Shakespeare  in  one  of  his 
later  plays,  which  was  printed  in  1609,  and  had  been 
acted,  before  that  time,  at  the  Globe  theatre.     The 


116  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

play  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  is  the  despair  of  all  critics 
who  seek  in  it  for  unity  of  purpose  or  meaning.  It 
is  a  bad  play,  crowded  with  wonders  and  beauties. 
The  love-story  is  written,  for  the  most  part,  in  the 
style  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  the  early  comedies, 
with  mauy  similar  phrases  and  jests.  The  political 
parts  are  in  Shakespeare's  full-armoured  mature  style, 
laden  with  thought,  and  richly  decorated  with  elo- 
quence. Love  and  politics  are  made  to  engage  our 
ardent  sympathies  in  turn,  without  any  interaction, 
and  are  both  turned  to  mockery  by  a  chorus  of 
sensualist  and  cynic,  Pandarus  and  Thersites.  The 
general  impression  left  by  the  play  is  unpleasant  only 
because  it  is  hopelessly  confused.  The  lyrical  rapture 
of  Troilus  and  the  resonant  wisdom  of  Ulysses  are  not 
effectively  put  to  shame ;  they  rise  here  and  there  above 
the  din  of  traffickers  and  brawlers ;  but  the  play  is  not 
theirs;  they  cry  out  in  the  market-place,  and  no  man 
regards  them.  Dryden  comments  on  the  faults  in- 
herent in  the  play,  and  states  that  Shakespeare  com- 
posed it  "  in  the  apprenticeship  of  his  writing."  It  is 
not  credible  that  the  speeches  of  Ulysses  belong  to 
this  early  time.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  hard  to 
believe  that  the  love-passages  of  the  Third  Act,  which 
are  untouched  by  the  spirit  of  satire,  and  show 
Cressida  pure  and  simple,  were  written  after  Romeo 
and  Juliet  —  a  mere  repetition.  In  the  absence  of 
any  other  intelligible  theory,  it  may  be  surmised 
that  Shakespeare  at  first  took  up  Chaucer's  story 
with  the  intent  of  making  it  into  a  tragedy.  But 
the  story  is  not  outwardly  tragic  ;  the  chief  persons,  as 
Dryden  remarks,  are  left  alive ;  and  the  events  of  their 
history  were  too  notorious  to  be  altered  by  a  play- 
wright. Chaucer  in  his  long  narrative  poem  achieves 
the  impossible ;  he  keeps  the  reader  in  sympathy  with 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  117 

the  love-lorn  Troilus,  with  the  faithless  Cressida,  and 
with  his  own  reflections  on  the  vanity  of  earthly 
desire.  These  are  the  miracles  of  a  story-teller;  they 
may  well  have  misled  even  Shakespeare,  until  he  tried 
to  transfer  them  to  the  stage,  and  found  that  the 
history  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  is  not  a  fit  theme  for  a 
lyrical  love-drama.  He  wrote  Romeo  and  Juliet  instead, 
and  retained  the  go-between  in  the  character  of  the 
Nurse,  who  is  twin-sister  to  Pandarus  even  in  tricks  of 
speech,  and  derives  from  the  same  great  original. 
Later  on,  when  a  play  was  required,  and  the  time  was 
short,  he  chose  the  romance  of  Troy,  in  its  larger 
aspects,  as  the  theme  of  a  political  drama,  and  eked  it 
out  with  the  earlier  incomplete  play.  The  failure  and 
miscarriage  of  everything  through  human  lust  and 
human  weakness  is  the  only  principle  of  coherence  in 
the  composite  play,  and  accordingly  Thersites  is  its 
hero.  Yet  Thersites  is  made  odious;  so  that  we  are 
left  with  the  impression  that  the  author,  after  mocking 
at  love  and  war  and  statecraft,  mocks  also  at  his  own 
disaffection.  In  no  other  instance  does  he  come  so 
near  to  the  restlessness  of  egotism  ;  but  his  poetry  is 
irrepressible ;  in  single  passages  the  play  is  great,  and 
by  these  it  is  remembered. 

All  this  doubtful  speculation  as  to  the  genesis  of 
particular  plays  may  be  fairly  dispensed  with  in  con- 
sidering the  works  of  Shakespeare's  prime.  At  an 
early  period  of  his  career  he  attached  himself  to  the 
Lord  Chamberlain's  company  of  players,  which  on  the 
accession  of  James  i.  became  the  King's  company,  and 
he  seems  to  have  remained  constant  to  it  thereafter. 
For  this  company  the  Globe  theatre  was  built  on  the 
Bankside  in  1599 ;  as  the  Fortune  theatre  in  Cripple- 
gate  was  built,  at  about  the  same  time,  for  their  chief 
rivals,  the  Lord  Admiral's  company.     There  can  be  no 


118  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

doubt  that  Shakespeare  was,  from  the  first,  in  high 
authority  at  the  Globe.  The  date  of  its  building 
coincides  with  the  beginning  of  his  greatest  dramatic 
period,  when  he  abandoned  the  historical  and  comic 
themes  which  had  won  him  popularity,  and  set  himself 
to  teach  English  tragedy  a  higher  flight.  His  tragedies 
and  Roman  plays,  it  is  safe  to  assume,  were  brought  out 
at  this  theatre  under  his  own  supervision;  the  actors 
were  probably  instructed  by  himself ;  the  very  build- 
ing was  possibly  designed  for  his  requirements.  The 
plays  of  his  maturity  were  therefore  produced,  as  few 
dramatists  can  hope  to  see  their  plays  produced,  in 
exact  conformity  with  the  author's  intentions.  His 
chief  tragic  actor,  Richard  Burbage,  to  judge  from 
those  faint  echoes  of  opinion  which  are  an  actor's 
only  memorial,  was  among  the  greatest  of  English 
tragedians,  and  at  least  had  this  inestimable  advantage 
over  Betterton  and  Garrick,  that  the  author  was  at 
hand  to  offer  criticism  and  counsel.  We  know  enough 
of  Shakespeare's  views  on  acting  to  be  sure  that  an 
unfamiliar  quiet  reigned  at  the  Globe;  the  aspiring 
tragedian  was  taught  to  do  his  roaring  gently ;  the 
strutting  player,  — 

Whose  conceit 
Lies  in  his  hamstring,  and  doth  think  it  rich 
To  hear  the  wooden  dialogue  and  sound 
'Twixt  his  stretch'd  footing  and  the  scaffoldage,  — 

was  subdued  to  a  more  temperate  behaviour ;  and  the 
poetry  of  the  long  speeches  was  recited,  as  it  has  not 
very  often  been  recited  since,  with  care  given  first  to 
melody  and  continuity  of  discourse. 

The  stage  at  these  early  theatres  was  a  raised  bare 
platform,  jutting  out  some  considerable  distance  among 
the  audience,  so  that  the  groups  of  players  were  seen 
from  many  points  of  view,  and  had  to  aim  at  statuesque 


IV.]  THE   THEATRE  119 

rather  than  pictorial  effect.  The  central  part  of  the 
theatre,  into  which  the  stage  protruded,  was  unroofed; 
and  plays  were  given  by  the  light  of  day.  There  was 
no  painted  scenery.  At  the  back  of  the  stage  a  wooden 
erection,  hollow  underneath,  and  hung  with  some  kind 
of  tapestry,  served  many  purposes.  It  was  Juliet's 
tomb,  and  the  canopy  of  Desdemona's  bed,  and  the 
hovel  where  poor  Tom  in  Lear  is  found  taking  refuge 
from  the  storm.  The  top  of  the  structure  was  used  as 
occasion  demanded,  for  the  battlements  of  Flint  Castle 
in  Richard  II,  or  for  the  balcony  in  Borneo  and  Juliet, 
or  for  the  window  in  Shylock's  house  whence  Jessica 
throws  the  casket,  or  for  Cleopatra's  monument,  to 
which  the  dying  Antony  is  raised  to  take  his  farewell 
of  Egypt.  No  women  appeared  on  the  public  stage, 
and  the  parts  of  women  were  taken  by  boys.  This 
last  is  perhaps  the  most  startling  feature  in  the  usage 
of  the  Elizabethan  stage.  When  Cleopatra  describes 
the  ignominy  of  being  led  to  Rome,  she  alludes  to  it : 

The  quick  comedians 
Extemporally  will  stage  us,  and  present 
Our  Alexandrian  revels  :  Antony 
Shall  be  brought  drunken  forth,  and  I  shall  see 
Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  my  greatness 
I'  the  posture  of  a  whore. 

It  is  strange  to  remember  that  a  boy  spoke  these  lines. 
And  the  same  irony  of  situation  must  surely  have  be- 
come almost  dangerous  in  the  speech  of  Yolumnia,  the 
Roman  matron : 

Think  with  thyself, 
How  more  unfortunate  than  all  living  women 
Are  we  come  hither. 

So  too  with  Shakespeare's  favourite  device  of  put- 
ting his  heroines   into   boy's   dress.     The   boys  who 


120  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

acted  Rosalind,  Viola,  and  Julia,  had  the  difficult 
task  of  pretending  to  be  girls  disguised  as  boys. 
In  spite  of  all  this,  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
Shakespeare  has  not  suffered  more  than  he  has  gained 
by  the  genius  of  latter-day  actresses,  who  bring  into 
the  plays  a  realism  and  a  robust  emotion  which  some- 
times obscure  the  sheer  poetic  value  of  the  author's 
conception.  The  boys  were  no  doubt  very  highly 
trained,  and  amenable  to  instruction ;  so  that  the 
parts  of  Rosalind  and  Desdemona  may  well  have 
been  rendered  with  a  clarity  and  simplicity  which 
served  as  a  transparent  medium  for  the  author's  wit 
and  pathos.  Poetry,  like  religion,  is  outraged  when 
it  is  made  a  platform  for  the  exhibition  of  their  own 
talent  and  passion  by  those  who  are  its  ministers. 
With  the  disappearance  of  the  boy-players  the  poetic 
drama  died  in  England,  and  it  has  had  no  second  life. 
The  effects  of  the  poetic  imagination  are  wrought 
largely  by  suggestion  ;  and  the  bare  stage,  by  sparing 
the  audience  a  hundred  irrelevant  distractions,  helped 
poetry  to  do  its  work.  Besides  poetry,  the  resources 
that  lay  to  Shakespeare's  hand  were  costume,  gesture, 
dramatic  grouping  of  the  actors,  procession,  music, 
dancing,  and  all  kinds  of  bodily  activity.  The  rude 
architectural  background  supplied  by  the  stage  was 
not  felt  to  be  insufficient ;  much  of  the  business  of 
life  was  transacted  by  Elizabethans,  as  it  still  is  by 
Orientals,  "  in  an  open  place."  Costume  was  something 
more  than  idly  decorative ;  it  was  a  note  of  rank, 
profession,  or  trade,  and  so  helped  to  tell  the  story. 
The  necessary  outlay  on  costume  was  the  heaviest 
part  of  theatrical  expense,  and  the  chief  actors  were 
furnished  with  a  varied  and  splendid  wardrobe. 
Shakespeare's  plays  are  written  with  unfailing  care  for 
these  externals.     He  entertained  the  spectators  with 


iv.]  THE  THEATRE  121 

unceasing  movement,  and  a  feast  of  colours,  and  the 
noise  of  trumpets  and  cannon  and  shouting,  and  end- 
less song  and  dance.  Sometimes  a  whole  scene  is  given 
over  to  pageantry,  like  that  scene  in  As  You  Like  It, 
where  Jaques  and  the  Lords,  clad  as  foresters,  bear 
the  deer  in  triumph,  and  crown  the  conqueror  with 
the  deer's  horns.  They  form  a  procession,  and  pass 
round  the  stage,  singing  a  lusty  song : 

Take  thou  no  scorn  to  wear  the  horn  ; 
It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  born. 

The  horn  was  a  jest  long  before  the  time  of  Shakespeare, 
and  he  took  no  scorn  to  repeat  it  everlastingly,  for  the 
delight  of  a  simple-minded  audience.  But  the  chief 
purpose  of  the  scene  is  explained  by  Jaques,  who  calls 
for  the  song,  and  adds  :  "  'Tis  no  matter  how  it  be  in 
tune,  so  it  make  noise  enough." 

The  vigilance  of  Shakespeare's  stage-craft  may  be 
best  seen  by  an  illustration.  In  the  Second  Act  of 
Julius  Caesar  the  conspiracy  against  Caesar  is  hatched. 
The  act  opens  with  the  appearance  of  Brutus,  who 
comes  into  his  orchard  to  call  for  his  servant.  We  are 
to  know  that  it  is  night,  and  we  are  told  at  once; 
Brutus  speaks  of  the  progress  of  the  stars,  and,  being 
unable  to  sleep,  orders  a  light  to  be  set  in  his  study. 
His  servant,  returning,  brings  him  a  paper,  found  in 
the  study-window  ;  it  is  a  message  from  the  conspira- 
tors, and  he  opens  it  and  reads  it.  But  we  are  not  to 
forget  that  it  is  dark,  and  he  explains : 

The  exhalations  whizzing  in  the  air 

Give  so  much  light  that  I  may  read  by  them. 

From  the  talk  of  Brutus  and  his  servant  we  have 
learned  that  it  is  the  night  before  the  Ides  of  March, 
that  Brutus  is  sleepless  and  troubled,  and  that  the  air 
is  full  of  portents.     Before  this  talk  is  ended,  it  may  be 


122  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

assumed  that  a  hush  has  fallen  upon  the  audience ;  the 
murmur  of  voices  and  the  cracking  of  nuts  have 
ceased.  Then  comes  a  knocking  at  the  gate,  and 
Cassius  is  admitted  with  his  fellow-conspirators,  who 
wear  their  hats  plucked  about  their  ears,  and  are  so 
muffled  up  that  Brutus  cannot  identify  them.  He  is 
introduced  to  them,  one  by  one,  and  Cassius  draws  him 
aside  for  a  long  whispered  colloquy.  Meantime  the 
others  discuss  the  points  of  the  compass  : 

Decius.     Here  lies  the  East :  doth  not  the  day  break  here  ? 

Casca.    No. 

Cinna.     0,  pardon,  Sir,  it  doth  ;  and  yon  grey  lines, 

That  fret  the  clouds,  are  messengers  of  day. 
Casca.     You  shall  confess  that  you  are  both  deceiv'd : 

Here,  as  I  point  my  sword,  the  Sun  arises, 

Which  is  a  great  way  growing  on  the  South, 

Weighing  the  youthful  season  of  the  year. 

Some  two  months  hence  up  higher  toward  the  North 

He  first  presents  his  fire,  and  the  high  East 

Stands,  as  the  Capitol,  directly  here. 

The  muffled  figures  are  grouped  at  one  corner  of  the 
protruding  stage,  behind  Casca,  who  points  at  the 
imagined  Capitol  with  his  sword.  Brutus  and  Cassius 
watch  them,  and  the  dramatic  group  breaks  up  at  a 
word  from  Brutus  : 

Give  me  your  hands  all  over,  one  by  one. 

Then  follows  a  discussion  of  the  plot  against  Caesar, 
until  the  clock  strikes  three,  and  the  conspirators  part. 
Brutus,  left  alone,  finds  that  his  servant  has  gone  to 
sleep.  The  whole  scene  is  heavy  with  the  sense  of 
night  and  the  darkness  of  conspiracy,  yet  the  effect  is 
produced  by  nothing  but  the  spoken  words  and  the 
gestures  of  the  players. 

Not  only  was  Shakespeare's  stage  bare,  but  the  story 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  123 

of  the  play  was  often  unknown  beforehand  to  his 
audience.  The  background  and  environment  of  his 
principal  characters  had  to  be  created  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  spectators,  worked  upon  and  excited  by 
his  poetry.  His  opening  scenes  are  therefore  all- 
important  ;  besides  explaining  preliminaries  they  often 
strike  the  keynote  of  the  whole  play.  Twelfth  Night,  a 
play  compact  of  harmony,  opens  with  the  strains  of 
music  ;  and,  when  the  music  ceases,  the  wonderful 
speech  of  the  Duke,  on  love  and  imagination,  is  a 
summary  of  all  that  follows.  In  Borneo  and  Juliet, 
before  either  of  the  lovers  is  heard  of,  we  witness 
a  quarrel  between  the  servants  of  the  rival  houses. 
The  first  words  spoken  in  Hamlet  are  a  challenge 
to  the  sentry  who  guards  the  royal  castle  of  Elsinore ; 
Macbeth  begins  with  a  thunderstorm,  and  rumours 
of  battle,  and  the  ominous  tryst  of  the  witches.  Not 
less  wonderful  than  these  is  the  opening  of  Othello ; 
the  subdued  voices,  talking  earnestly  in  the  street,  of 
money,  and  preferment,  and  ancient  grudges,  are  the 
muttering  of  the  storm  which  breaks  with  tropical 
violence  in  the  sudden  night-alarm,  and  is  lulled  into 
quiet  again  in  the  Council  Chamber  of  the  Duke.  But 
this  cloud  is  only  the  vanguard  of  the  darkness  that  is 
to  follow,  and  of  the  winds  that  are  to  blow  till  they 
have  wakened  death.  The  development  of  Shake- 
speare's greater  plays  is  curiously  musical  in  its  logic  ; 
the  statement  and  interweaving  of  the  themes,  the  varia- 
tions and  repetitions,  the  quiet  melodies  that  are  heard 
in  the  intervals,  and  the  gradual  increase  of  complexity 
until  the  subtle  discourse  of  the  earlier  scenes  is 
swallowed  up  in  the  full  blare  of  the  reunited  orchestra 
—  all  this  ordered  beauty  was  made  possible  by  the 
strict  subordination  of  stage  effects  to  the  needs  and 
the  methods  of  poetry. 


124  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

No  detail  of  the  business  of  a  playwright  escaped 
his  attention.  His  management  of  entrances  deserves 
careful  study.  The  actors  came  on  at  the  back  of  the 
stage,  and  had  some  way  to  go  before  they  could  begin 
to  speak.  He  allows  time  for  this,  and  "  Look  where 
he  comes  "  —  the  common  formula  of  introduction  —  is 
usually  spoken  by  one  of  the  characters  who  is  drawn 
a  little  aside,  watching  another  come  forward.  So  in 
Othello,  when  Iago's  poison  has  begun  to  work : 

Iago.  Look  where  he  comes.     Not  poppy,  nor  mandragora, 
Nor  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world, 
Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep 
Which  thou  ow'dst  yesterday. 

This  superb  incantation  is  uttered  by  the  high-priest  of 
evil  over  the  unconscious  Othello  as  he  comes  moodily 
down  the  stage.  Many  modern  editions  of  Shakespeare 
postpone  the  entrance  of  Othello  until  Iago's  speech  is 
finished,  whereby  they  ruin  the  dramatic  effect.  The 
habitual  shifting  of  the  entrances  to  suit  the  require- 
ments of  the  modern  stage,  where  most  of  the 
characters  must  come  on  from  the  wings,  is  an  evil 
departure  from  the  old  copies,  and  a  wrong  done  to 
Shakespeare.  On  his  platform  stage  he  often  intro- 
duces independent  groups  of  actors,  and  makes  one 
group  serve  as  a  commentary  on  the  other.  At  the 
beginning  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra  Demetrius  and  Philo 
are  discussing  the  dotage  of  their  great  general.  There 
is  a  nourish  ;  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  with  their  trains, 
and  eunuchs  fanning  her,  come  slowly  down  the  stage 
on  the  other  side.     Then  Philo  continues  : 

Look  where  they  come. 
Take  but  good  note,  and  you  shall  see  in  him 
The  triple  pillar  of  the  world  transform'd 
Into  a  strumpet's  fool :  behold  and  see. 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  126 

By  this  time  the  procession  has  come  forward  and  we 
overhear  the  talk  of  the  lovers.  Throughout  the 
scene  Demetrius  and  Philo  have  no  share  in  the  action ; 
they  stand  aside  and  play  the  part  of  a  chorus ;  their 
conversation  interprets  to  the  audience  the  meaning  of 
what  is  going  forward  on  the  stage. 

Where  the  action  is  so  complex  as  it  commonly  is 
in  Shakespeare's  plays,  a  great  part  of  it  must  neces- 
sarily be  set  forth  in  report  or  narration.  He  divides 
the  ancient  functions  of  the  messenger,  like  those 
of  the  chorus,  among  the  characters  of  the  play. 
Many  of  his  most  memorable  scenes  —  the  wedding  of 
Petruchio,  the  death  of  Ophelia,  the  interview  of 
Hotspur,  on  the  field  of  battle,  with  the  popinjay 
lord,  —  are  narrated,  not  exhibited.  Yet  for  all  his  use 
of  this  indirect  method,  Shakespeare  puts  too  much 
on  his  stage,  and  sometimes  violates  the  modesty  of 
art.  To  his  audience  he  must  have  seemed  notable 
for  restraint ;  they  were  inured  to  horrors  ;  and  he 
gave  them  no  hangings,  and  no  slow  deaths  by  torture. 
Titus  Andronicus  may  be  left  out  of  the  account,  as 
a  work  of  youthful  bravado.  But  the  blinding  of 
Gloucester  on  the  stage,  though  casuistry  has  been 
ready  to  defend  it,  cannot  be  excused.  This  is  the 
chief  of  his  offences ;  in  comparison  with  this  the 
bringing  in  of  the  hot  irons,  in  King  John,  and  the 
murder  of  Macduff's  young  son,  in  Macbeth,  are  venial 
transgressions,  which  may  be  happily  slurred  over  in 
the  acting. 

The  day  for  discussing  the  notorious  unities  in 
connection  with  Shakespeare's  drama  is  long  past. 
Romantic  poetry  created  its  own  drama,  and  acknow- 
ledges no  unity  save  that  which  is  equally  binding 
on  a  poem  or  a  prose  story  —  the  unity  of  impression. 
Nowhere  is  the   magic  of   Shakespeare's  art  greater 


126  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

than  here.  He  reduces  a  wild  diversity  of  means  to 
a  single  purpose;  and  submits  the  wealth  of  his 
imagination  and  knowledge  to  be  judged  by  this  one 
test.  His  landscape,  his  moonlight  and  sunlight  and 
darkness,  his  barren  heaths  and  verdurous  parks,  are 
all  agents  in  the  service  of  dramatic  poetry.  "  It  is 
almost  morning,"  says  Portia,  at  the  close  of  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,  —  and  the  words  have  an  indescribable 
human  value.  When  Claudio,  in  Much  Ado,  has  paid 
his  last  tribute  to  the  empty  tomb  of  Hero,  and  all 
things  are  arranged  for  the  final  restoration  of  happi- 
ness, Don  Pedro  speaks : 

Good  morrow,  masters  :  put  your  torches  out. 

The  wolves  have  prey'd,  and  look,  the  gentle  day, 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoehus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  East  with  spots  of  grey. 

But  the  best  instance  of  this  alliance  of  poetry  with 
the  drama  is  to  be  found  in  As  You  Like  It.  The  scene 
is  laid,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  forest  of  Arden.  A 
minute  examination  of  the  play  has  given  a  curious 
result.  No  single  bird,  or  insect,  or  flower,  is  men- 
tioned by  name.  The  words  "flower"  and  "leaf" 
do  not  occur.  The  oak  is  the  only  tree.  For  animals, 
there  are  the  deer,  one  lioness,  and  one  green  and 
gilded  snake.  The  season  is  not  easy  to  determine ; 
perhaps  it  is  summer ;  we  hear  only  of  the  biting  cold 
and  the  wintry  wind.  "But  these  are  all  lies,"  as 
Rosalind  would  say,  and  the  dramatic  truth  has  been 
expressed  by  those  critics  who  speak  of  "the  leafy 
solitudes  sweet  with  the  song  of  birds."  It  is  nothing 
to  the  outlaws  that  their  forest  is  poorly  furnished 
with  stage-properties ;  they  fleet  the  time  carelessly 
in  a  paradise  of  gaiety  and  indolence,  and  there  is 
summer  in  their  hearts.     So  Shakespeare  attains  his 


iv.]  THE   THEATRE  127 

end  without  the  bathos  of  an  allusion  to  the  soft 
green  grass,  which  must  needs  have  been  represented 
by  the  boards  of  the  theatre.  The  critical  actuaries 
are  baffled,  and  find  nothing  in  this  play  to  assess ; 
Shakespeare's  dramatic  estate  cannot  be  brought  under 
the  hammer,  for  it  is  rich  in  nothing  but  poetry. 


CHAPTER  V 

STORY   AND    CHARACTER 

In  the  Folio  Shakespeare's  work  is  divided  into  three 
kinds  —  Comedy,  History,  and  Tragedy.  The  classifica- 
tion of  the  plays  under  these  headings  is  artificial  and 
misleading.  Cymbeline  appears  among  the  Tragedies  ; 
while  Measure  for  Measure,  a  play  much  more  tragic  in 
temper,  is  numbered  with  the  Comedies.  Richard  II. 
is  a  History;  Julius  Caesar  is  a  Tragedy.  Troilusand 
Cressida,  in  consequence  of  some  typographical  mishap, 
was  inserted,  with  the  pages  unnumbered,  between  the 
Histories  and  the  Tragedies. 

The  section  headed  Histories  contains  the  historical 
plays  dealing  with  English  kings.  This  sort  of  play, 
the  Chronicle  History,  flourished  during  the  last 
fifteen  years  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  and  owed  its  popu- 
larity to  the  fervour  of  Armada  patriotism.  The  newly 
awakened  national  spirit  made  the  people  quick  to 
discern  a  topical  interest  in  the  records  of  bygone 
struggles  against  foreign  aggression  and  civil  dis- 
union. In  writing  plays  of  this  kind  Shakespeare 
was  following  the  lead  of  others  ;  and  the  plays  them- 
selves, because  they  are  based  to  a  large  extent  on 
earlier  dramatic  handlings  of  the  same  themes,  and 
frequently  sacrifice  the  truth  of  history  to  the  exi- 
gencies of  the  drama,  are  a  less  faithful  record  of 
facts  than  the  Roman  plays  which  derive  solely  from 
Plutarch.     Doubtless  where  national  memories  were 

128 


chap,  r.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  129 

concerned,  the  audience  at  the  theatre  was  content 
with  a  comparatively  diffuse  style  of  play  ;  and  this 
looseness  of  structure,  which  is  found  in  the  weaker 
Histories,  is  the  sole  justification  for  the  new  name. 
But  the  threefold  division  has  no  value  for  dramatic 
criticism.  The  Histories  were  an  accident  of  fashion, 
and  claimed  some  measure  of  exemption,  by  virtue 
of  their  political  interest,  from  the  severer  canons  of 
art.  At  least  they  told  a  story,  and  the  playgoers 
asked  no  more. 

Even  the  time-honoured  distinction  of  Tragedy 
and  Comedy  gives  no  true  or  satisfying  division  of 
Shakespeare's  plays.  Othello  is  a  tragedy  ;  As  You 
Like  It  is  a  comedy :  so  much  may  be  admitted.  But 
between  the  most  marked  examples  of  the  two  kinds 
there  is  every  degree  and  variety  of  tragic  and  comic 
interest,  exhibited  in  rich  confusion  ;  so  that  the  plays 
might  be  best  arranged  on  a  graduated  scale ;  comedy 
shades  into  tragedy  by  imperceptible  advances,  and  he 
would  be  a  bold  man  who  should  presume  to  determine 
the  boundary.  The  crude  test  of  life  or  death  gives 
no  easy  criterion ;  in  The  Winter's  Tale  Mamillius,  heir 
to  the  throne  of  Sicily,  only  son  to  Hermione,  and  one 
of  the  most  delightful  of  Shakespeare's  children,  dies 
of  grief  and  fear.  Romeo  and  Juliet  die,  Troilus  and 
Cressida  survive.  In  some  of  the  comedies  the  gravest 
infidelities  and  sufferings  are  lightly  huddled  up  in  a 
happy  ending.  Further,  Shakespeare  has  no  two 
styles  for  the  two  kinds  of  play.  The  echoes  that 
pass  from  the  one  to  the  other  would  make  a  strange 
collection.  Benedick  and  Hamlet  speak  the  same 
tongue.  "  If  a  man  do  not  erect  in  this  age  his  own 
tomb  ere  he  dies,  he  shall  live  no  longer  in  monuments, 
than  the  bell  rings  and  the  widow  weeps."  So  says 
jesting    Benedick,   at    the    height   of    his   new-found 


130  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

happiness  with  Beatrice.  "  Oh  Heavens ! "  says 
Hamlet,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  "  die  two  months 
ago,  and  not  forgotten  yet?  Then  there's  hope  a 
great  man's  memory  may  outlive  his  life  half  a  year  : 
but  by'r  lady,  he  must  build  churches  then,  or  else 
shall  he  suffer  not  thinking  on,  with  the  hobby-horse." 
If  Hamlet  is  a  philosopher,  so  is  Benedick.  "  Is  it  not 
strange,"  he  says  of  music,  "  that  sheeps'  guts  should 
hale  souls  out  of  men's  bodies?"  Another  of  these 
echoes  passes  from  Justice  Shallow  to  King  Lear. 
"  "lis  the  heart,  Master  Page,"  says  the  thin-voiced 
little  justice  ;  "  'tis  here,  'tis  here.  I  have  seen  the 
time,  with  my  long  sword,  I  would  have  made  you  four 
tall  fellows  skip  like  rats."  How  like  to  these  are  the 
words  spoken  by  Lear,  when  he  carries  Cordelia  dead 
in  his  arms  ;  yet  how  unlike  in  effect : 

I  have  seen  the  clay,  with  my  good  biting  falchion, 
I  would  have  made  them  skip  :  I  am  old  now, 
And  these  same  crosses  spoil  me. 

All  the  materials  and  all  the  methods  of  Shake- 
speare's Tragedy  are  to  be  found  dispersed  in  his 
Comedy.  Most  of  his  themes  are  indifferent,  and  no 
one  could  predict  which  of  them  he  will  choose  for  a 
happy  ending.  Nor  is  there  reason  to  suppose  that 
the  public  called  at  one  time  for  comic  stories,  at 
another  time  for  tragic,  and  that  his  plots  were  adapted 
to  suit  the  demand.  The  real  difference  is  in  his  own 
mood ;  the  atmosphere  and  impression  which  give  to 
each  play  its  character  are  reflected  from  his  own 
thought,  and  cannot  be  ranged  under  two  heads  to 
meet  the  mechanical  requirements  of  criticism. 

It  is  this  which  gives  importance  to  the  determina- 
tion of  the  chronological  order  of  the  plays.  Endless 
labour  has  been  spent  on  the  task ;  and  although,  in 


v.]  STORY  AND   CHARACTER  131 

this  question,  as  in  all  others  connected  with  Shake- 
speare, there  is  a  tendency  to  overstate  the  certainty 
of  the  results,  yet  results  of  value  have  been  obtained. 
Plavs  of  the  same  type  have  been  shown  to  fall  within 
the   same   period   of   his   life.     His   early  boisterous 
Comedies  and  his  prentice-work  on  history  are  followed 
by  his  joyous  Comedies  and  mature  Histories  ;  these 
again  by  his  Tragedies  and  painful  Comedies  ;  and  last, 
at  the  close  of  his  career,  he  reverts  to  Comedy,  but 
Comedy   so    unlike    the    former    kind,    that    modern 
criticism  has  been  compelled  to  invent  another  name 
for  these  final  plays,  and  has  called  them  Eomances. 
There  is  no  escape  from  the  broad  lines  of  this  classifica- 
tion.    Xo  single  play  can  be  proved  to  fall  out  of  the 
company  of  its  own  kind.     The  fancies  of  those  critics 
who  amuse  themselves  by  picturing  Shakespeare  as 
the  complete  tradesman  have  no  facts  to  work  upon. 
"  One  wonders,"  says  Mr.  Halliwell-Phillipps,  "  what 
Heminge  and  Condell  would  have   thought   if  they 
had  applied  to  Shakespeare  for  a  new  comedy,  and 
the  great  dramatist  had  told  them  that  he  could  not 
possibly  comply  with  their  wishes,  he  being  then  in 
his  Tragic  Period."     What  they  would  have  thought 
may  admit  a  wide  conjecture ;  what  they  got  is  less 
doubtful.     If  they  asked  for  a  comedy  when  he  was 
writing    his    great    tragedies    they   got   Measure  for 
Measure  or  Troilvs  and  Cressida ;  if  they  asked  for  a 
tragedy  when  he  was  writing  his  happiest  works  of 
wit  and  lyric  fantasy,  they  got  Borneo  and  Juliet. 

Shakespeare's  Comedy  is  akin  to  his  Tragedy,  and 
does  not  come  of  the  other  house.  The  kind  of 
Comedy  which  has  been  most  famous  and  most 
influential  in  the  world's  history  is  satirical  Comedy, 
which  takes  its  stand  on  the  best  social  usage,  and 
laughs  at  the  follies  of  idealists.     Its  feet  are  planted 


132  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

firmly  on  the  earth  beneath,  and  it  pays  no  regard  to 
the  heavens  above,  nor  to  the  waters  that  are  under 
the  earth.  Socrates  and  the  founders  of  modern 
science  are  laughed,  out  of  court  along  with  the  half- 
witted fops  and  the  half-crazy  charlatans.  But  this  is 
not  Shakespeare's  Comedy.  His  imagination  is  too 
active  to  permit  him  to  find  rest  in  a  single  attitude. 
His  mind  is  always  open  to  the  wider  issues,  which 
reach  out  on  all  sides,  into  fantasy  or  metaphysic.  He 
can  study  the  life  of  his  fellows  as  a  man  might  study 
life  on  ship-board,  and  can  take  delight  in  the  daily 
intrigues  of  the  human  family ;  but  there  is  a  back- 
ground to  the  picture ;  he  is  often  caught  thinking  of 
the  sea,  which  pays  no  attention  to  good  sense,  and  of 
the  two-inch  plank,  which  may  start  at  any  moment. 
Wit  and  good  sense  there  is  in  plenty ;  and  there  is  a 
woman,  or  a  humorist,  to  show  that  wit  and  good 
sense  are  insufficient.  Even  in  Love's  Labour 's  Lost, 
Biron,  the  apostle  of  wit  and  good  sense,  is  sent  to 
jest  for  a  twelvemonth  in  a  hospital.  In  The  Merchant 
of  Venice  the  whole  action  of  the  play  passes  on  the 
confines  of  tragedy,  and  is  barely  saved  from  cross- 
ing into  the  darker  realm.  On  the  leaden  casket  is 
engraved  tthe  motto  of  Shakespeare's  philosophy: 
"  Who  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath." 
Bassanio  is  not  called  upon  to  pay  the  full  debt ;  but 
the  voice  of  tragedy  has  been  heard,  as  it  is  heard 
again  in  the  passion  of  Shylock.  The  first  breathings 
of  tragic  feeling,  which  are  found  even  in  the  gayest 
of  the  early  comedies,  steadily  increase  in  volume  and 
intensity,  until  the  storm  rises,  and  blows  all  laughter 
out  of  the  plays,  except  the  laughter  of  the  fool.  It 
is  as  if  Shakespeare  were  carried  into  tragedy  against 
his  will ;  his  comedies,  built  on  the  old  framework  of 
clever  trick  and  ludicrous  misunderstanding,  become 


v.]  STORY  AND   CHARACTER  133 

serious  on  his  hands  ;  until  at  last  he  recognises  the 
position,  cuts  away  all  the  mechanical  devices  whereby 
the  semblance  of  happiness  is  vainly  preserved,  aud 
goes  with  open  eyes  to  meet  a  trial  that  has  become 
inevitable. 

The  classic  apparatus  of  criticism  is  not  very  well 
adapted  to  deal  with  this  case.  There  is  not  a  par- 
ticle of  evidence  to  show  that  Shakespeare  held  any 
views  on  the  theory  of  the  drama,  or  that  the  question 
was  a  live  one  in  his  mind.  The  species  of  play  that 
he  most  affected  in  practice  has  been  well  described  by 
Polonius  ;  it  is  the  "  tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, 
scene  individable,  or  poem  unlimited."  His  first  care 
was  to  get  hold  of  a  story  that  might  be  shaped  to  the 
needs  of  the  theatre.  It  is  possible,  no  doubt,  for  a 
dramatist,  as  it  is  for  a  novelist,  to  go  another  way  to 
work.  He  may  conceive  living  characters,  and  devise 
events  to  exhibit  them  ;  or  he  may  start  with  a  moral, 
a  philosophy  of  life,  an  atmosphere,  a  sentiment,  and 
set  his  puppets  to  express  it.  But  Shakespeare  kept 
to  the  old  road,  and  sought  first  for  a  story.  Some  of 
his  characters  were  made  by  his  story,  as  characters 
are  made  by  the  events  of  life.  Others  he  permits  to 
intrude  upon  the  story,  as  old  friends,  or  new  visitors, 
intrude  upon  a  plan  and  disorder  it.  His  wisdom  of 
life  grew,  a  rich  incrustation,  upon  the  events  and 
situations  of  his  fable.  But  the  story  came  first  with 
him,  —  as  it  came  first  with  his  audience,  as  it  comes 
first  with  every  child. 

Those  who  have  studied  Shakespeare's  plays  with  an 
eye  to  their  making  will  ask  for  no  proof  of  this.  If 
proof  were  needed,  it  could  be  found  in  the  incom- 
modities  and  violences  which  are  sometimes  put  upon 
him  by  the  necessity  of  keeping  to  the  story  when  the 
characters  have  come  alive  and  are  pulling  another 


134  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

way.  He  spent  no  great  care,  one  would  say,  on  the 
original  choice  of  a  theme,  but  took  it  as  he  found  it, 
if  it  looked  promising.  Then  he  dressed  his  characters, 
and  put  them  in  action,  so  that  his  opening  scenes  are 
often  a  kind  of  postulate,  which  the  spectator  or  reader 
is  asked  to  grant.  At  this  point  of  the  play  improba- 
bility is  of  no  account;  the  intelligent  reader  will 
accept  the  situation  as  a  gift,  and  will  become  alert 
and  critical  only  when  the  next  step  is  taken,  and  he 
is  asked  to  concede  the  truth  of  the  argument  —  given 
these  persons  in  this  situation,  such  and  such  events 
will  follow.  Let  it  be  granted  that  an  old  king  divides 
his  realm  among  his  three  daughters,  exacting  from 
each  of  them  a  profession  of  ardent  affection.  Let  it 
be  granted  that  a  merchant  borrows  money  of  a  Jew 
on  condition  that  if  he  fail  to  repay  it  punctually  he 
shall  forfeit  a  pound  of  his  own  flesh.  Let  it  be 
granted  that  a  young  prince  sees  a  ghost,  who  tells 
him  that  his  uncle,  the  reigning  king,  and  second 
husband  of  his  mother,  is  a  murderer,.  The  hypo- 
thetical preambles  of  King  Lear,  Tlie  Merchant  of  Venice, 
and  Hamlet  are  really  much  more  elaborate  than  this, 
but  this  may  serve  to  illustrate  Shakespeare's  method. 
Before  appealing  to  the  sympathies  and  judgment  of 
his  audience  he  has  to  acquaint  them  with  the  situation. 
Until  the  situation  is  created  he  cannot  get  to  work 
on  his  characters.  His  plays  open  with  a  postulate ; 
then  the  characters  begin  to  live,  and,  as  Act  follows 
Act,  come  into  ever  closer  and  more  vital  relation  to 
the  course  of  events  ;  till  at  last  the  play  is  closed, 
sometimes  triumphantly  and  inevitably,  by  exhibiting 
the  result  of  all  that  has  gone  before ;  at  other  times 
feebly  and  carelessly,  by  neglecting  the  new  interests 
that  have  grown  around  the  characters,  and  dragging 
the  story  back  into  its  predestined  shape. 


v.]  STORY  AND   CHARACTER  135 

If  this  be  so,  it  makes  some  kinds  of  criticism  idle. 
Why,  it  is  often  asked,  did  not  Cordelia  humour  her 
father  a  little?  She  was  too  stubborn  and  rude,  where 
tact  and  sympathetic  understanding  might,  without  any 
violation  of  truth,  have  saved  the  situation.  It  is  easy 
to  answer  this  question  by  enlarging  on  the  character  of 
Cordelia,  and  on  that  touch  of  obstinacy  which  is  often 
found  in  very  pure  and  unselfish  natures.  But  this  is 
really  beside  the  mark;  and  those  who  spend  so  much 
thought  on  Cordelia  are  apt  to  forget  Shakespeare. 
If  Cordelia  had  been  perfectly  tender  and  tactful, 
there  would  have  been  no  play.  The  situation  would 
have  been  saved,  and  the  dramatist  who  was  in  attend- 
ance to  celebrate  the  sequel  of  the  situation  might 
have  packed  up  his  pipes  and  gone  home.  This  is  not 
to  say  that  the  character  of  Cordelia  is  drawn  carelessly 
or  inconsistently.  But  it  is  a  character  invented  for 
the  situation,  so  that  to  argue  from  the  character  to 
the  plot  is  to  invert  the  true  order  of  things  in  the 
artist's  mind.  To  go  further,  and  discuss  Cordelia's 
childhood  as  a  serious  question  of  criticism,  is  to  lose 
all  hold  on  the  real  dramatic  problem,  and  to  fall  back 
among  the  idle  people,  who  ask  to  be  deceived,  and 
are  deceived.  It  would  be  as  reasonable  to  attempt  to 
judge  a  picture  by  considering  all  those  things  which 
might  possibly  have  been  included  in  it  if  the  frame 
had  been  larger.  The  frame,  which  to  the  uninstructed 
gazer  is  a  mere  limitation  and  obstacle,  hindering  his 
wider  view  of  reality,  is  to  the  painter  the  beginning 
and  foundation  and  condition  of  all  that  appears 
within  it. 

In  the  great  tragedies  story  and  character  are 
marvellously  adapted  to  each  other  ;  hardly  anything 
is  forced  or  twisted  to  bring  it  within  the  limits  of  the 
scheme.     By  the  time  that  he  wrote  Lear  and  Othello, 


136  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

Shakespeare  was  a  master  craftsman,  deeply  acquainted 
with  life,  which  had  to  be  portrayed,  and  thoroughly 
exercised,  by  long  practice,  in  the  handling  of  all  those 
dramatic  schemes  and  patterns  which  had  to  be  filled. 
But  in  his  early  comedies,  and  also,  strangely  enough, 
in  his  latest  plays,  the  adaptation  of  story  and  char- 
acter is  less  perfect.  How  lightly  troubles  find  their 
solution  in  the  comedies  !  In  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,  Proteus,  if  we  are  to  judge  him  by  his  deeds, 
is  shallow  and  fickle,  and  false  both  to  Valentine, 
his  friend,  and  to  Julia,  his  affianced  love.  He  is 
converted  by  being  found  out,  at  the  end  of  the  Fifth 
Act.  A  play  must  have  an  end,  and  this  play  is  a 
comedy,  so  he  makes  an  acceptable  penitent.  "My 
shame  and  guilt  confounds  me,"  he  says,  when  Valen- 
tine has  rescued  Silvia  from  his  violence.  A  few  lines 
later  he  returns  to  his  old  love,  and  philosophises  on 
inconstancy : 

What  is  in  Silvia's  face  but  I  may  spy- 
More  fresh  in  Julia's  with  a  constant  eye? 

If  he  had  thought  of  this  before,  it  would  have 
ruined  the  play.  What  hard  heart  will  quarrel  with 
an  ending  which  gives  us  a  double  marriage, 

One  feast,  one  house,  one  mutual  happiness  ? 

In  Twelfth  Night  Viola  alone,  of  all  who  fall  in  love, 
is  honoured  by  being  married  to  the  first  object  of  her 
affections ;  and  it  may  perhaps  be  said,  in  Shakespeare's 
defence,  that  she  alone  deserves  this  particular  honour. 
The  rest  are  married,  or  kept  single,  much  as  silken 
strands  are  disposed  in  a  gay  pattern.  These  plays, 
after  all,  are  comedies  of  intrigue  ;  the  pattern  is  very 
elaborate ;  and  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  discuss  the 
characters  seriously,  were  it  not  that  Shakespeare  has 


v.]  STORY  AND  CHARACTER  137 

worked  so  much  of  real  and  living  character  into  the 
scheme,  that  we  are  emboldened  thereby  to  ask  him 
for  the  impossible.  If  all  the  characters  are  to  live, 
the  plot  would  have  to  be  simpler  and  less  symmetri- 
cal. All  are,  at  least,  most  happily  adapted  to  the 
light  uses  of  comedy.  The  world  in  which  they  move 
is  a  rainbow  world  of  love  in  idleness.  The  intensities 
and  realities  of  life  shimmer  into  smoke  and  film  in 
that  delicate  air.  The  inhabitants  are  victims  of  love- 
fancy  which  is  engendered  in  the  eyes,  youths  and 
maidens  who  dally  with  the  innocence  of  Love,  votaries 
of  Love, 

Who  kissed  his  wings  that  brought  him  yesterday, 
And  praise  his  wings  to-day  that  he  is  flown. 

In  what  other  world  were  there  ever  so  many  witty 
lovers  ?  In  what  other  world  were  melancholy,  and 
contempt,  and  anger,  ever  made  to  look  so  beautiful  ? 
When  Shakespeare  has  no  further  use  for  a  character, 
he  sometimes  disposes  of  him  in  the  most  unprincipled 
and  reckless  fashion.  Consider  the  fate  of  Antigonus 
in  TJie  Winter's  Tale.  Up  to  the  time  of  his  sudden 
death  Antigonus  has  served  his  maker  well ;  he  has 
played  an  important  part  in  the  action,  and  by  his 
devotion  and  courage  has  won  the  affection  of  all  the 
spectators.  It  is  he  who  saves  the  daughter  of 
Hermione  from  the  mad  rage  of  the  king.  "I'll 
pawn  the  little  blood  which  I  have  left,"  he  says, 
"to  save  the  innocent."  He  is  allowed  to  take  the 
child  away  on  condition  that  he  shall  expose  her  in 
some  desert  place,  and  leave  her  to  the  mercy  of 
chance.  He  fulfils  his  task,  and  now,  by  the  end  of 
the  Third  Act,  his  part  in  the  play  is  over.  Sixteen 
years  are  to  pass,  and  new  matters  are  to  engage  our 
attention ;  surely  the  aged  nobleman  might  have  been 


138  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

allowed  to  retire  in  peace.  Shakespeare  thought  other- 
wise ;  perhaps  he  felt  it  important  that  no  news  what- 
ever concerning  the  child  should  reach  Leontes,  and 
therefore  resolved  to  make  away  with  the  only  likely 
messenger.  Antigonus  takes  an  affecting  farewell  of 
the  infant  princess;  the  weather  grows  stormy;  and 
the  rest  must  be  told  in  Shakespeare's  words : 

Antigonus.  Farewell ; 

The  day  frowns  more  and  more  :  thou'rt  like  to  have 
A  lullaby  too  rough  :  I  never  saw 
The  heavens  so  dim  by  day.    A  savage  clamour  ! 
Well  may  I  get  aboard.    This  is  the  chase, 
I  am  gone  for  ever  !  {Exit  pursued  by  a  bear. 

This  is  the  first  we  hear  of  the  bear,  and  would  be  the 
last,  were  it  not  that  Shakespeare,  having  in  this  wise 
disposed  of  poor  Antigonus,  makes  a  thrifty  use  of  the 
remains  at  the  feast  of  Comedy.  The  clown  comes  in 
to  report,  with  much  amusing  detail,  how  the  bear 
has  only  half-dined  on  the  gentleman,  and  is  at  it 
now.  It  is  this  sort  of  conduct,  on  the  part  of  the 
dramatist,  that  the  word  Eomance  has  been  used  to 
cover.  The  thorough-paced  Rom  antic  critic  is  fully 
entitled  to  refute  the  objections  urged  by  classic  cen- 
sors against  Shakespeare's  dramatic  method ;  but  if  he 
profess  to  be  unable  to  understand  them,  he  disgraces 
his  own  wit. 

The  plot  must  be  carried  on,  the  interest  and  move- 
ment of  the  story  maintained,  at  all  costs,  even  if  our 
sympathies  are  outraged  by  the  wild  justice  that  is 
done  in  the  name  of  Comedy.  The  principal  char- 
acters in  AIVs  Well  that  Ends  Well  are  designed  for 
their  parts  in  the  intrigue,  but  not  even  Shakespeare's 
skill  can  unite  the  incompatible,  and  teach  them  how 
to  do  their   dramatic  work  without  weakening   their 


v.]  STORY  AND   CHARACTER  139 

claim  on  our  sympathies.  "I  cannot  reconcile  my 
heart,"  says  Johnson,  "  to  Bertram,  a  man  noble  with- 
out generosity,  and  young  without  truth ;  who  marries 
Helen  as  a  coward,  and  leaves  her  as  a  profligate ; 
when  she  is  dead  by  his  unkindness,  sneaks  home  to 
a  second  marriage,  is  accused  by  a  woman  whom  he 
has  wronged,  defends  himself  by  falsehood,  and  is 
dismissed  to  happiness."  And  Claudio,  in  Much  Ado, 
is  a  fair  companion  for  him,  a  very  ill-conditioned, 
self-righteous  young  fop,  who  is  saved  from  punish- 
ment by  the  virtues  of  others  and  the  necessities  of 
the  plot.  It  is  a  comfort  to  hear  old  Antonio  speak 
his  mind  on  him  and  his  like  : 

What,  man !  I  know  them,  yea 
And  what  they  weigh,  even  to  the  utmost  scruple, 
Scambliug,  out-facing,  fashion-mongering  boys, 
That  lie  and  cog  and  flout,  deprave  and  slander. 

Nor  does  Beatrice  leave  her  opinion  doubtful. 

But  these  are  creatures  judging  a  fellow-creature. 
"What  would  the  great  artificer  of  them  all  have  said, 
if  he  had  been  compelled  to  reply  to  Johnson's  repeated 
accusation?  "He  sacrifices  virtue,"  says  Johnson 
again,  "to  convenience,  and  is  so  much  more  careful 
to  please  than  to  instruct,  that  he  seems  to  write 
without  any  moral  purpose."  Would  not  Shakespeare 
have  defended  his  characters  with  something  of  the 
large  humorous  tolerance  displayed  by  Falstaff  towards 
his  ragged  regiment  ?  "  Tell  me,  Jack,"  says  the 
Prince,  "  whose  fellows  are  these  that  come  after  ?  " 
"  Mine,  Hal,  mine,"  says  Falstaff,  with  wary  geniality. 
"  I  did  never  see  such  pitiful  rascals,"  says  the  Prince, 
who  was  a  frank  and  fearless  commentator.  And  then 
Falstaff,  with  one  of  those  sudden  reaches  of  ima- 
gination which  disconcert  the  adversary  by  forcing 


140  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

him  off  the  narrow  ground  of  his  choice  —  "  Tut,  tut ; 
good  enough  to  toss;  food  for  powder,  food  for 
powder;  they'll  fill  a  pit  as  well  as  better:  tush, 
man,  mortal  men,  mortal  men."  Might  not  Shake- 
speare have  replied  in  the  same  fashion  to  a  critic  of 
heroic  leanings  ?  His  profligates  and  coxcombs  fill  a 
plot  as  well  as  better,  and  when  all  is  said,  they  are 
mortal  men.  Shakespeare's  carelessness  is  a  part  of 
his  magnanimity,  and  a  testimony  to  his  boundless 
resource. 

If  we  sometimes  find  it  hard  to  forgive  him,  it  is  partly 
because  we  are  dissatisfied  with  the  government  of  the 
world,  and  call  out  for  "  poetic  justice,"  a  narrow  and 
rigid  apportionment  of  rewards  and  punishments  accord- 
ing to  the  dictates  of  the  moral  sense.  Shakespeare 
moves  in  a  larger  scheme  of  things,  where  the  sun  rises 
on  the  evil  and  on  the  good.  He  finds  it  easy,  there- 
fore, to  accept  his  story  as  a  kind  of  providence,  and  to 
abide  by  its  surprising  awards.  Why  did  he  create  so 
exquisite  a  being  as  Imogen  for  the  jealous  and  paltry 
Posthumus  ?  He  has  the  precedent  of  nature,  which 
makes  many  strangely-assorted  matches  ;  and  he  does 
not  greatly  care  what  we  think  of  Posthumus.  In  the 
cases  where  he  does  care,  where  ill  deeds  are  assigned 
by  the  story  to  one  who  must  be  kept  dear  and 
honourable,  he  rouses  himself  to  magnificent  effort. 
The  story  of  Othello  involved  false  suspicions,  enter- 
tained by  Othello  on  the  testimony  of  slander,  against 
his  young  and  innocent  wife,  who  had  left  her  home 
and  her  country  to  follow  him.  If  these  suspicions 
grew  in  the  normal  fashion,  and  were  nurtured  by 
jealousy,  there  would  be  no  tragedy,  only  another 
Winter's  Tale.  Shakespeare  played  for  the  higher 
stakes.  From  the  first  he  makes  Othello  a  man  after 
his  own  heart,  tender,  generous,  brave,  and  utterly 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  141 

magnanimous.  At  the  opening  of  the  play,  when  the 
Senator  Brabantio  appears,  with  officers  and  torches,  to 
take  him,  and  the  followers  on  both  sides  draw  their 
weapons,  the  character  of  Othello  is  given,  with  thril- 
ling effect,  in  a  few  words : 

Othello.     Keep  up  your  bright  swords,  for  the  dew  will  rust  them. 
Good  Signior,  you  shall  more  command  with  years, 
Than  with  your  weapons. 

Fearlessness  and  the  habit  of  command,  pride  that 
would  be  disgraced  by  a  street  brawl,  respect  for  law 
and  humanity,  reverence  for  age,  laconic  speech,  and  a 
touch  of  contempt  for  the  folly  that  would  pit  itself, 
with  a  rabble  of  menials,  against  the  General  of  the 
Republic  and  his  bodyguard  —  all  this  is  expressed  in 
two  lines.  Everything  that  follows,  up  to  the  crisis  of 
the  play,  helps  to  raise  Othello  to  the  top  of  admiration, 
and  to  fix  him  in  the  affections  of  the  reader.  Scene 
follows  scene,  and  in  every  one  of  them,  it  might  be 
said,  Shakespeare  is  making  his  task  more  hopeless. 
How  is  he  to  fill  out  the  story,  and  yet  save  our  sym- 
pathies for  Othello  ?  The  effort  must  be  heroic  :  and 
it  is.  He  invents  Iago.  The  greatness  of  Iago  may 
be  measured  by  this,  that  Othello  never  loses  our 
sympathy.  By  slow  and  legitimate  means,  never 
extravagant,  circumstance  is  added  to  circumstance, 
until  a  net  is  woven  to  take  Othello  in  its  toils.  But 
circumstance  is  not  his  undoing.  Left  to  him  self,  even 
when  the  toils  were  closing  in  upon  him,  Othello 
would  have  rent  them  asunder,  and  shaken  them 
off.  When  he  grows  impatient,  and  seems  likely 
to  break  free,  Iago  is  at  hand,  to  keep  him  still,  and 
compel  him  to  think.  On  matters  like  these  Othello 
cannot  think ;  he  is  accustomed  to  impulse,  instinct, 
and  action ;  these  tedious  processes  of  arguing  on  dis- 


142  SHAKESPEARE  [chap 

honour  are  torture  to  him  ;  and  when  he  tries  to  think, 
he  thinks  wrong.     His  own  account  of  himself  is  true  : 

A  man  not  easily  jealous,  but  being  wrought, 
Perplexed  in  the  extreme. 

There  is  not  another  of  Shakespeare's  plays  which  is 
so  white-hot  with  imagination,  so  free  from  doubtful 
or  extraneous  matter,  and  so  perfectly  welded,  as 
Othello.  Macbeth  has  some  weak  scenes  ;  Hamlet  and 
King  Lear  are  cast  in  a  more  variegated  mould,  so  that 
the  tension  is  sometimes  relaxed  and  the  heat  abated  ; 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  approaches,  in  some  of  its  scenes, 
to  the  earlier  chronicle  manner.  In  general,  it  is  true 
to  say  that  Shakespeare  cheerfully  burdens  himself 
with  a  plot  which  is  either  very  complex,  or  very 
artificial,  or  both,  and  then  goes  to  work  to  make  a 
living  thing  of  it.  His  care  for  probability  is  least  in 
his  latest  plays.  Towards  the  beginning  of  his  career 
he  wrote  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  which  is  a  story  of  two 
pairs  of  twin  brothers,  each  pair  so  exactly  alike  that 
no  one  can  tell  them  apart.  Towards  the  close  he 
wrote  Cymbeline,  of  which  Johnson  speaks  truly  and 
moderately  when  he  says  :  "  This  play  has  many  just 
sentiments,  some  natural  dialogues,  and  some  pleasing 
scenes,  but  they  are  obtained  at  the  expense  of  much 
incongruity.  To  remark  the  folly  of  the  fiction,  the 
absurdity  of  the  conduct,  the  confusion  of  the  names 
and  manners  of  different  times,  and  the  impossibility 
of  the  events  in  any  system  of  life,  were  to  waste 
criticism  upon  unresisting  imbecility,  upon  faults  too 
evident  for  detection,  and  too  gross  for  aggravation." 
The  best  and  highest  part  of  Shakespeare's  imagina- 
tion was  not  concerned,  one  is  tempted  to  say,  with 
plot-architecture.  Any  plot  is  good  enough  for  him, 
if  it  leads  him,  by  unlikely  and  tortuous  ways,  to  a 


v.]  STORY  AND  CHARACTER  143 

real  situation ;  and  no  sooner  is  he  confronted  with  a 
real  situation  than  his  characters,  invented,  it  may  be, 
only  to  fill  a  place  in  the  story,  become  live  and 
convincing.  Many  a  poet  who  pays  more  regard  to 
proportion  and  verisimilitude  finds  that  his  char- 
acters, though  they  do  and  suffer  nothing  that  does 
not  arise  simply  and  naturally  from  the  development 
of  the  plot,  have  no  breath  in  them,  and  lie  dead  upon 
his  hands.  Unity,  severity  of  structure,  freedom  from 
excess,  the  beauties  of  simplicity  and  order,  —  these 
may  be  learned  from  the  Greeks.  But  where  can  this 
amazing  secret  of  life  be  learned?  It  is  the  miracle  of 
Nature  —  not  the  Nature  exalted  by  the  schools  as  a 
model  of  thrift  and  restraint,  but  the  true  Nature,  the 
goddess  of  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess,  who  pours 
forth  without  ceasing,  at  all  times  and  in  the  most  un- 
likely places,  her  enormous  and  extravagant  gift  of 
life.  The  story  may  be  shapeless,  grotesque,  inanimate, 
like  a  stone  rejected  by  the  curious  builders  who  seek 
for  severity  of  form.     But  Nature  does  not  despise  it. 

How  long  does  it  lie, 
The  bad  and  barren  bit  of  stuff  you  kick, 
Before  encroached  on  and  encompassed  round 
With  minute  moss,  weed,  wild-flower  —  made  alive 
By  worm  and  fly  and  foot  of  the  free  bird  ? 

It  is  thus  that  Shakespeare  works  on  a  story,  conceal- 
ing its  barren  ugliness  under  the  life  of  his  own 
creation.  It  is  impossible  to  say  when  he  will  suddenly 
put  forth  his  vital  power,  and  take  away  the  breath  of 
his  readers  by  some  astonishing  piece  of  insight  which 
defeats  all  expectation.  He  is  most  natural  when 
he  upsets  all  rational  forecasts.  We  are  accustomed 
to  anticipate  how  others  will  behave  in  the  matters 
that  most  nearly  concern  us  ;  we  seem  to  know  what 


144  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

we  shall  say  to  them,  and  to  be  able  to  forecast  what 
they  will  say  in  answer.  We  are  accustomed,  too,  to 
find  that  our  anticipation  is  wrong;  what  really 
happens  gives  the  lie  to  the  little  stilted  drama  that 
we  imagined,  and  we  recognise  at  once  how  poor  and 
false  our  fancy  was,  how  much  truer  and  more  surpris- 
ing the  thing  that  happens  is  than  the  thing  that  we 
invented.  So  it  is  in  Shakespeare.  His  surprises  have 
the  same  convincing  quality ;  the  word  once  said  is 
known  to  have  been  inevitable,  and  the  character 
ceases  to  be  a  character  of  fiction,  controlled  by  the 
plot.  We  are  watching  the  events  of  real  life  ;  from 
our  hidden  vantage-ground  we  see  into  the  mystery  of 
things,  as  if  we  were  God's  spies. 

It  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  call  to  remembrance 
a  few  only  of  these  splendid  divinations. 

Cleopatra  has  fallen  into  the  power  of  Caesar,  after 
the  death  of  Antony.  Caesar,  in  the  measured  terms 
of  magnanimity  befitting  a  professional  conqueror, 
advises  her  to  do  nothing  violent,  and  promises  that 
she  shall  be  honoured  and  consulted.  "  My  master, 
and  my  lord ! "  says  the  Queen ;  to  which  Caesar 
makes  gracious  response,  "Not  so;  Adieu,"  and  goes 
out  with  his  attendants.  Then  Cleopatra  turns  to  her 
women : 

He  words  me,  girls,  he  words  me,  that  I  should  not 
Be  noble  to  myself. 

And  Iras,  who  sees  the  real  situation  no  less  truly, 
replies, 

Finish,  good  lady  ;  the  bright  day  is  done, 
And  we  are  for  the  dark. 

These  brief  speeches,  coming  at  the  end  of  the  long 
diplomatic  interview,  are  like  flashes  of  lightning 
discovering  the  perils  of  travellers  among  the  Alps. 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  145 

Desdemona  has  suddenly  had  revealed  to  her,  beyond 
all  hope  of  mistake,  what  it  is  that  Othello  believes. 
He  has  "  laid  such  despite  and  heavy  terms  upon  her 
as  true  hearts  cannot  bear,"  and  has  left  her.  Emilia, 
grieved  and  solicitous,  stays  by  her  mistress: 

Emit.     How  do  you,   Madam  ?      How  do  you,   my  good 

Lady? 
Des.    Faith,  half  asleep. 

Emil.   Good  Madam,  what's  the  matter  with  my  Lord  ? 
Des.    With  who  ? 

Emil.   Why,  with  my  Lord,  Madam. 
Des.   Who  is  thy  Lord  ? 
Emil.   He  that  is  yours,  sweet  Lady. 
Des.    I  have  none  :  do  not  talk  to  me,  Emilia : 

I  cannot  weep :  nor  answers  have  I  none 

But  what  should  go  by  water. 

Macbeth,  brought  to  bay  within  his  castle,  hears 
that  the  Queen  is  dead: 

Macbeth.  She  should  have  died  hereafter  ; 

There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. 

Othello,  coming  into  the  bedchamber  of  his  sleeping 
wife,  looks  upon  that  picture  of  innocence  and  beauty, 
and,  lest  he  should  be  overcome  by  it,  clutches  at  his 
failing  resolve: 

Othello.   It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul  ; 
Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars  ; 
It  is  the  cause. 

So  swift  and  certain  is  Shakespeare's  insight, 
that  he  has  often  puzzled  his  licensed  interpreters. 
The  actor  Fechter,  finding  no  sense  in  these  words, 
caused  Othello  to  take  up  a  toilet-glass,  fallen  from 
Desdemona's  hand,  and,  gazing  therein  on  the  image 
of  his  bronzed  face,  to  exclaim,  "It  is  the  cause." 
x. 


146  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

Garrick  himself,  with  no  better  understanding,  wrote 
a  dying  speech  for  Macbeth,  beginning, 

'Tis  done  ;  the  scene  of  life  will  quickly  close  ; 

and  delivered  it,  with  suitable  death-agonies,  to 
thronged  audiences.  This  sort  of  thing  makes  every 
lover  of  Shakespeare  willing,  so  far  as  the  great 
tragedies  are  concerned,  to  forswear  the  theatre 
altogether. 

The  truth  is  that  his  best  things  are  not  very 
effective  on  the  stage.  These  packed  utterances  are 
glimpses  merely  of  the  hurry  of  unspoken  thought; 
they  come  and  are  gone ;  they  cannot  be  delivered 
emphatically,  nor  fully  understood  in  the  pause  that 
separates  them  from  the  next  sentence ;  and  when 
they  are  understood,  the  reader  feels  no  desire  to 
applaud;  he  is  seized  by  them,  his  thoughts  are  set 
a-working,  and  he  is  glad  to  be  free  from  the 
importunacy  of  spectacle  and  action.  Tragedy  has 
no  monopoly  of  them ;  wherever  the  situation  be- 
comes tense,  the  surprises  of  reality  intrude.  Falstaff 
is  cast  off,  publicly  disgraced  and  banished,  by  his  old 
companion,  now  King  Henry  v.  He  stands  among 
the  crowd  at  the  Coronation  ceremony,  by  the  side  of 
Justice  Shallow,  whom  he  has  cheated  of  money, 
duped  with  promises  of  Royal  favour,  and  despised ; 
he  listens  to  the  severe  judgment  of  the  King,  and, 
when  it  is  ended,  watches  the  retreating  procession. 
What  trick,  what  device,  has  he  now,  to  hide  him 
from  this  open  and  apparent  shame  ?  If  we  did  not 
know  it  from  Shakespeare,  we  could  never  have 
guessed  how  Falstaff  would  take  the  rebuff.  He  turns 
quite  simply  to  his  companion,  and  says,  "Master 
Shallow,  I  owe  you  a  thousand  pound."  It  is  some- 
thing to  be  a  humorist,  trained  by  habit  to  recognise 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  147 

the  incongruity  of  facts.  No  less  convincing  is  the 
acquiescence  of  Parolles,  when  his  cowardice  and 
treachery  are  brought  home  to  hini : 

Yet  am  I  thankful;  if  my  heart  were  great, 
'T  would  burst  at  this  :  Captain  I  '11  be  no  more, 
But  I  will  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep  as  soft 
As  Captain  shall.     Simply  the  thing  I  am 
Shall  make  me  live. 

Shakespeare  dared  to  follow  his  characters  into  those 
dim  recesses  of  personality  where  the  hunted  soul 
stands  at  bay,  and  proclaims  itself,  naked  as  it  is,  for 
a  greater  thing  than  law  and  opinion. 

Perhaps  the  vitalising  power  of  Shakespeare  is  best 
seen  in  the  loving  care  that  he  sometimes  spends  on 
subsidiary  characters,  whose  connection  with  the  plot 
is  but  slight.  The  young  Osric,  in  Hamlet,  has  no 
business  in  the  play  except  to  carry  Laertes'  challenge 
to  Hamlet.  Shakespeare  draws  his  portrait ;  we  learn 
that  he  is  a  landowner,  and  perceive  that  he  is  an 
accomplished  courtier.  Hamlet  and  Horatio  discuss 
him  at  some  length,  and  his  own  speech  shows  how 
seriously  he  is  preoccupied  with  all  the  etiquette  and 
formality  of  Court  life.  He  exists,  it  cannot  be 
doubted,  merely  as  a  foil  for  Hamlet's  wit  and  melan- 
choly. When  the  mind  is  wholly  taken  up  with 
tragic  issues,  when  it  is  brooding  on  a  great  sorrow, 
or  foreboding  a  hopeless  event,  the  little  daily  affairs 
of  life  continue  unaltered  ;  tables  are  served,  courtesies 
interchanged,  and  the  wheels  of  society  revolve  at 
their  accustomed  pace.  Osric  is  the  representative  of 
society  ;  his  talk  is  of  gentility,  skill  in  fencing,  and 
the  elegance  of  the  proffered  wager.  How  distant 
and  dream-like  it  all  seems  to  Hamlet,  and  to  those 
who  are  in  his  secret !     But  this  trivial  society  is  real 


148  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

and  necessary,  and  strong  with  the  giant  strength  of 
custom  and  institution.  Shakespeare  demonstrates 
its  reality  by  showing  us  a  live  inhabitant.  He  might 
have  entrusted  the  challenge  to  a  walking-gentleman, 
and  concluded  the  business  in  a  few  lines.  By  making 
a  scene  of  it,  he  adds  a  last  touch  of  pathos  to  the 
loneliness  of  Hamlet,  and  gives  a  last  opportunity  for 
the  display  of  that  incomparable  vein  of  irony. 

A  stranger  testimony  to  the  wealth  of  his  creative 
genius  may  be  found  in  its  superfluous  creations. 
Some  of  his  characters  incommode  him  by  their 
vitality,  and  even  refuse  the  duties  for  which  they 
were  created.  Barnardine,  in  Measure  for  Measure, 
is  one  of  these  rebels.  In  the  Italian  original  of 
the  story  Isabella,  to  save  the  life  of  her  brother, 
yields  to  the  wicked  deputy,  who  thereupon  breaks 
his  promise,  and  causes  Claudio  to  be  executed  in  the 
prison.  George  Whetstone,  who  handled  the  story 
before  Shakespeare,  mitigated  one  of  these  atrocities; 
in  his  version  the  gaoler  is  persuaded  to  substitute 
the  head  of  a  newly  executed  criminal  for  the  head  of 
Claudio.  In  Shakespeare's  play  we  find,  along  with 
Claudio,  a  prisoner  called  Barnardine,  who  is  under 
sentence  of  death,  and  is  designed  to  serve  as  Claudio's 
proxy.  He  is  a  Bohemian  born,  "  a  man  that  appre- 
hends death  no  more  dreadfully  but  as  a  drunken 
sleep ;  careless,  reckless,  and  fearless  of  what's  past, 
present,  or  to  come;  insensible  of  mortality,  and 
desperately  mortal."  All  arrangements  are  made  for 
the  substitution,  and  Barnardine  is  called  forth  to  his 
death.  Then  a  strange  thing  happens.  Barnardine,  a 
mere  detail  of  the  machinery,  comes  alive,  and  so 
endears  himself  to  his  maker,  that  his  execution  is  felt 
to  be  impossible.  Even  the  murderer  of  Antigonus 
has  not  the  heart  to  put  Barnardine  to  death.     A  way 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  149 

out  must  be  found ;  the  disguised  Duke  suggests  that 
Barnardine  is  unfit  to  die,  and  the  Provost  comes  in 
with  the  timely  news  that  a  pirate  called  Ragozine, 
who  exactly  resembles  Claudio,  has  just  died  in  the 
prison  of  a  fever.  So  Barnardine,  who  was  born  to  be 
hanged,  is  left  useless  in  his  cell,  until  at  the  close  of 
the  play  he  is  kindly  remembered  and  pardoned.  The 
plot  is  managed  without  him ;  yet,  if  he  were  omitted, 
he  would  be  sadly  missed.  He  is  a  fine  example  of 
the  aristocratic  temper.  In  that  over-heated  atmo- 
sphere of  casuistry  and  cowardice  he  alone  is  self- 
possessed  and  indifferent.  He  treats  the  executioner 
like  his  valet :  "  How  now,  Abhorson  ?  What 's  the 
news  with  you  ?  "  His  decision  of  character  is  abso- 
lute: "I  will  not  consent  to  die  this  day,  that's 
certain."  Those  who  speak  to  him,  Duke  and  tapster 
alike,  assume  the  deprecating  tone  of  inferiors. 
"  But  hear  you "  says  the  Duke,  and  is  inter- 
rupted: "  Not  a  word  :  if  you  have  anything  to  say  to 
me,  come  to  my  ward ;  for  thence  will  not  I  to-day." 
So  the  Bohemian  goes  back,  to  hold  his  court  in  the 
straw.  It  is  a  wonderful  portrait  of  the  gentleman 
vagabond,  and  is  presented  by  Shakespeare  to  his 
audience,  a  perfect  gratuity. 

Some  of  the  most  famous  characters  in  the  plays 
are  in  a  like  case  with  Barnardine ;  Shakespeare  loves 
them,  and  portrays  them  so  sympathetically  that  they 
engage  the  interest  of  the  audience  beyond  what  is 
required  (almost  beyond  what  is  permitted)  by  the 
general  trend  of  the  story.  The  diverse  interpreta- 
tions given  by  notable  actors  to  the  part  of  Shylock 
have  their  origin  in  a  certain  incongruity  between  the 
story  that  Shakespeare  accepted,  and  the  character  of 
the  Jew  as  it  came  to  life  in  his  hands.  Some  actors, 
careful   for   the   story,  have   laid  stress  on  revenge, 


150  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

cunning,  and  the  thirst  for  innocent  blood.  Others, 
convinced  by  Shakespeare's  sympathy,  have  presented 
so  sad  and  human  a  figure  that  the  verdict  of  the 
Court  is  accepted  without  enthusiasm,  Portia  seems 
little  better  than  a  clever  trickster,  and  the  actor  of 
Gratiano,  who  is  compelled  to  exult,  with  gibe  and 
taunt,  over  the  lonely  and  broken  old  man,  forfeits 
all  favour  with  the  audience.  The  difficulty  is  in  the 
play.  The  Jew  of  the  story  is  the  monster  of  the 
mediaeval  imagination,  and  the  story  almost  requires 
such  a  monster,  if  it  is  to  go  with  ringing  effect  on  the 
stage.  Shylock  is  a  man,  and  a  man  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning.  He  is  one  of  those  characters 
of  Shakespeare  whose  voices  we  know,  whose  very 
tricks  of  phrasing  are  peculiar  to  themselves.  Antonio 
and  Bassanio  are  pale  shadows  of  men  compared  with 
this  gaunt,  tragic  figure,  whose  love  of  his  race  is  as 
deep  as  life ;  who  pleads  the  cause  of  a  common 
humanity  against  the  cruelties  of  prejudice;  whose 
very  hatred  has  in  it  something  of  the  nobility  of 
patriotic  passion ;  whose  heart  is  stirred  with  tender 
memories  even  in  the  midst  of  his  lament  over  the 
stolen  ducats  ;  who,  in  the  end,  is  dismissed,  unpro- 
testing,  to  insult  and  oblivion. 

I  pray  you  give  me  leave  to  go  from  hence  : 
I  am  not  well.     Send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

So  ends  the  tragedy  of  Shylock,  and  the  air  is  heavy 
with  it  long  after  the  babble  of  the  love-plot  has 
begun  again.  The  Fifth  Act  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice 
is  an  exquisite  piece  of  romantic  comedy ;  but  it  is  a 
welcome  distraction,  not  a  full  solution.  The  revenge- 
ful Jew,  whose  defeat  was  to  have  added  triumph  to 
happiness,   keeps   possession    of    the   play,   and  the 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  151 

memory  of  him  gives  to  these  beautiful  closing  scenes 
an  undesigned  air  of  heartless  frivolity. 

The  chief  case  of  all  is  Fal staff,  who  was  originally 
intended,  so  far  as  we  can  judge  from  the  part  assigned 
to  him  in  the  development  of  the  plot,  to  be  a  coarse, 
fat,  tavern  rogue,  dissolute,  scurrilous,  and  worthless. 
But  Shakespeare  lent  him  all  his  own  wit  and  some  of 
his  own  metaphysic,  and  Falstaff  became  so  potent  in 
charm  that  we  are  bewitched  with  the  rogue's  com- 
pany, and  are  more  than  half  inclined  to  adopt  his 
view  of  the  titular  hero  of  the  epic,  Prince  Henry. 
"A  good  shallow  young  fellow,"  says  Falstaff;  "'a 
would  have  made  a  good  pantler ;  'a  would  have 
chipped  bread  well."  This  view,  accepted,  makes 
nonsense  of  the  whole  structure  of  the  play ;  and 
Shakespeare  comes  very  near  to  making  nonsense  of  it 
for  the  glorification  of  Falstaff.  He  saves  himself  by 
forcible,  not  to  say  violent,  means,  after  preparing  the 
way  in  the  unnatural  and  pedantic  soliloquy  of  the 
Prince : 

I  know  you  all,  and  will  awhile  uphold 
The  unyok'd  humour  of  your  idleness : 
Yet  herein  will  I  imitate  the  sun, 

—  and  so  on,  for  twenty  lines  or  more,  like  the  induction 
of  a  bald  Morality  play.  Truly,  a  plot  is  in  a  poor 
case  when  it  sets  up  defences  like  this  against  the 
artillery  of  Falstaff's  criticism  and  humour,  and  the 
insidious  advances  of  his  good-fellowship. 

In  these  great  instances  Shakespeare's  fecundity  of 
imagination  somewhat  confuses  the  outlines  of  the 
design,  and  distracts  the  sympathies  of  the  audience. 
Without  direction  given  to  sympathy,  a  play  is  not  a 
play,  but  a  chaos  or  patchwork.  The  Greeks  secured 
unity  by  means  of  the  Chorus,  which  mediates  between 


152  SHAKESPEARE  [chap 

the  actors  and  the  spectators,  bespeaking  attention, 
interpreting  events,  and  guiding  the  feelings.  Shake- 
speare had  no  Chorus,  but  he  attains  the  same  end  in 
another  way.  In  almost  all  his  plays  there  is  a  clear 
enough  point  of  view ;  there  is  some  character,  or 
group  of  characters,  through  whose  eyes  the  events  of 
the  play  must  be  seen,  if  they  are  to  be  seen  in  right 
perspective.  Some  of  his  creatures  he  keeps  nearer  to 
himself  than  others.  The  meaning  of  Love's  Labour's 
Lost  cannot  be  read  through  the  eyes  of  Armado,nor  that 
of  Twelfth  Night  through  the  eyes  of  Malvolio.  What 
comes  of  regarding  the  play  of  Hamlet  from  the  point 
of  view  of  Polonius  ?  A  hundred  critical  essays  and 
dissertations  on  the  symptoms  of  madness ;  but  no 
understanding,  and  no  sympathy  with  Shakespeare. 
Moreover,  the  point  of  view  gradually  shifts  as  the 
years  pass  by.  It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  to  read 
Romeo  and  Juliet  from  the  standpoint  of  Lady  Capulet ; 
even  so  calm  and  experienced  a  guide  as  Friar 
Laurence  cannot  lead  us  to  the  heart  of  the  play.  On 
the  other  hand,  TJie  Tempest,  or  The  Winter's  Tale,  cannot 
be  read  aright  by  those  whose  sympathies  are  concen- 
trated on  Miranda  and  Ferdinand,  or  on  Florizel  and 
Perdita.  Heine,  speaking  of  Juliet  and  Miranda, 
likens  them  to  the  sun  and  moon.  Moonlight,  it  may 
be  added,  is  reflected  sunlight ;  and  the  ethereal 
quality  of  Miranda's  beauty  is  the  quality  belonging  to 
a  reflection.  We  sympathise  with  Miranda  and  Fer- 
dinand, but  it  is  not  their  passion  that  we  feel,  rather 
it  is  the  benevolence  and  wisdom  of  Prospero  rejoicing 
in  their  passion.  Miranda,  that  is  to  say,  is  Prospero's 
Miranda.  No  woman  ever  appeared  thus  to  her  lover 
—  so  completely  unsophisticated,  so  absolutely  simple. 
She  is  compact,  says  Mrs.  Jameson,  of  the  very 
elements   of   womanhood ;    and  it  is   this   elemental 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  153 

character  which  appeals,  more  than  anything  individual 
or  distinctive,  to  the  imagination  of  mature  age. 

Shakespeare's  plays  are  works  of  art,  not  chronicles 
of  fact.  There  is  always  a  centre  of  interest.  Some 
of  the  characters  are  kept  in  the  full  light  of  this  area 
of  perfect  vision.  Others,  moving  in  the  outer  field  of 
vision,  have  no  value  save  in  relation  to  this  centre. 
His  habit  of  over-crowding  his  canvas  is  sometimes 
detrimental  to  the  main  impression.  Edmund's  love- 
intrigues,  for  instance,  in  King  Lear,  —  who  does  not 
find  them  a  tedious  piece  of  machinery  ?  They  belong 
to  the  story,  but  they  do  not  help  the  play.  For  the 
most  part,  and  in  the  most  carefully  ordered  of  the 
plays,  the  subsidiary  characters  and  events  are  used  to 
enhance  the  main  impression.  They  have  no  full  and 
independent  existence  ;  they  are  seen  only  in  a  limited 
aspect,  and  have  just  enough  vitality  to  enable  them  to 
play  their  allotted  part  in  the  action. 

A.  great  part  of  the  character-study  which  is  so  much 
in  vogue  among  Shakespeare  critics  is  vitiated  by  its 
neglect  of  this  consideration.  The  critics  must  needs 
be  wiser  than  Shakespeare,  and  must  finish  his  sketches 
for  him,  telling  us  more  about  his  characters  than 
ever  he  knew.  They  treat  each  play  as  if  it  were  a 
chessboard,  and  work  out  problems  that  never  entered 
into  his  imagination.  They  alter  the  focus,  and 
force  all  things  to  illustrate  this  detail  or  that. 
They  plead  reverence  for  Shakespeare's  omniscience, 
and  pay  a  very  poor  compliment  to  his  art.  A  play 
is  like  a  piano;  if  it  is  tuned  to  one  key,  it  is  out 
of  tune  for  every  other.  The  popular  saying  which 
denies  all  significance  to  the  play  of  Hamlet  with  the 
Prince  of  Denmark  left  out,  shows  a  just  sense  of  this. 
Yet  the  study  of  the  lesser  characters,  conceived  in 
relation,  not  to  Hamlet,  but  to  one  another,  continues 


154  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

to  exercise  the  critics.  The  King  in  Hamlet  is  little 
better  than  a  man  of  straw.  He  is  sufficiently  realised 
for  Shakespeare's  purpose ;  we  see  him  through  Hamlet's 
eyes,  and  share  Hamlet's  hatred  of  him.  His  soliloquy 
in  the  scene  where  Hamlet  discovers  him  praying  is 
merely  plausible;  its  rhyming  tag  would  lose  nothing 
if  it  were  spoken  by  a  chorus  and  addressed  to  the 
audience : 

His  words  fly  up,  his  thoughts  remain  helow  ; 
Words  without  thoughts  never  to  heaven  go. 

His  murder  of  his  brother,  his  usurpation,  and  his 
wooing  of  the  Queen,  are  all  shown  to  us  as  they 
affected  Hamlet  after  the  event ;  to  discuss  them  in  any 
other  light  is  idle.  When  Shakespeare  intended  a 
full-length  portrait  of  a  murderer,  he  wrote  Macbeth,  in 
which  play  Malcolm  and  Donalbain,  the  lawful  heirs 
to  the  crown,  fall  into  the  background  and  are  sub- 
ordinated to  the  central  interest. 

Even  in  the  comedies,  where  the  interest  is  less  con- 
centrated than  in  Hamlet  or  Macbeth,  some  of  the  chief 
figures  are  no  more  than  accessory.  Bassanio,  for 
instance,  in  TJie  Merchant  of  Venice,  must  not  be  judged 
by  critical  methods  which  are  fair  when  applied  to 
Romeo.  There  is  barely  room  for  him  in  the  central 
part  of  the  picture.  He  is  sketched  lightly  and  suffi- 
ciently in  his  twofold  aspect,  as  Antonio's  friend  and 
Portia's  suitor.  He  is  a  careless  and  adventurous 
young  gallant ;  the  type  was  familiar,  and  was  easy  to 
suggest  by  a  few  outlines.  Wealth  is  the  burden  of 
his  wooing  dance,  as  it  was  of  Petruchio's.  Only  in 
the  casket  scene  does  he  put  on  a  fuller  semblance  of 
thought  and  emotion,  and  this,  no  doubt,  was  the 
dramatist's  tribute  to  Portia,  whose  surrender  of 
herself  is  made  in  words  so  beautiful  and  moving  that 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  155 

the  situation  would  become  almost  painful  if  Bassanio 
were  not  furnished  with  his  response  from  the  same 
rich  store  of  poetry.  His  character,  his  motives,  his 
merits  and  defects  as  Portia's  husband  —  these  will 
continue  to  be  the  theme  of  countless  essays.  The 
embroidery  of  Shakespeare  has  become  a  national  in- 
dustry, harmless  enough  so  long  as  it  is  not  mistaken 
for  criticism.  But  even  good  critics  sometimes  permit 
themselves  the  dangerous  assumption  that  Shake- 
speare's meaning  is  not  written  broad   on   the  play: 

And  thus  do  they  of  wisdom  and  of  reach 
With  windlasses  and  with  assays  of  bias, 
By  indirections  find  directions  out. 

What  they  fail  to  remark  is  that  in  the  very  act  of 
rescuing  buried  meanings,  alleged  to  be  all  important, 
they  are  condemning  the  work  of  the  playwright. 
Shakespeare  is  subtle,  fearfully  and  wonderfully  subtle; 
and  he  is  sometimes  obscure,  lamentably  obscure.  But 
in  spite  of  all  this,  most  of  his  plays  make  a  distinct 
and  immediate  impression,  by  which,  in  the  main,  the 
play  is  to  be  judged.     The  impression  is  the  play. 

The  analysis  and  illustration  of  Shakespeare's  char- 
acters, considered  separately,  has  had  so  long  a  vogue, 
and  has  produced  work  so  memorable,  that  we  are  in 
some  danger  of  forgetting  how  partial  such  a  method 
must  be.  The  heroines  of  the  several  plays  are  often 
taken  out  of  their  dramatic  setting  to  be  compared 
one  with  another.  There  was  never  a  more  delightful 
pastime.  But  let  it  be  remembered  how  we  come  by  our 
knowledge  of  these  characters.  Rosalind  we  know  in 
the  sweet  vacancy  of  the  forest  of  Arden :  we  see  Isabella 
only  at  the  direst  crisis  of  her  histoiy.  Portia  and 
Julia  are  overheard  talking  to  their  maids :  Ophelia 
has  no  confidential  friend,  unless  the  brotherly  lecture 


156  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

of  Laertes  be  regarded  as  an  invitation  to  confidence. 
Hermia  and  Helena  in  a  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
are  the  sport  of  the  fairies  ;  Katherine,  in  The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew,  is  the  victim  of  human  experiment.  The 
marvellous  art  of  Shakespeare  presents  each  of  these 
in  so  natural  a  guise  that  we  forget  the  slightness  of 
our  acquaintance,  and  the  exceptional  nature  of  our 
opportunities.  We  seem  to  know  them  all,  and  to  be 
able  to  predict  how  each  of  them  will  act  in  trials 
to  which  she  cannot  be  exposed.  What  if  Desdemona 
had  been  Lear's  daughter,  and  Cordelia  Othello's  wife  ? 
Would  not  the  sensitive  affection  of  the  one  and  the 
proud  sincerity  of  the  other  have  given  us  a  different 
result?  So  we  are  lured  further  and  further  afield, 
until  we  find  ourselves  arguing  on  questions  that  have 
no  meaning  for  criticism,  and  no  existence  save  in 
dreams.  It  is  well  to  go  back  to  Shakespeare ;  and  to 
remember  the  conditions  imposed  upon  him,  whether 
by  the  story  of  his  choice,  or  by  the  necessities  of 
dramatic  presentment.  No  attempt  can  here  be  made 
to  do  more  than  select  a  few  samples  of  his  enormous 
riches,  a  few  portraits  from  his  gallery  of  character  and 
a  few  topics  from  his  treasury  of  thought.  In  either 
case  the  laws  of  the  drama,  which  govern  both,  must 
not  be  neglected,  even  where  they  seem  to  relax  their 
force.  Some  of  his  characters,  it  has  been  shown,  tend 
to  escape  from  their  dramatic  framework,  and  to  assert 
their  independence.  In  the  same  fashion,  some  of  his 
favourite  topics  are  treated  with  greater  fullness  and 
insistence  than  dramatic  necessity  can  be  proved  to  re- 
quire, and  so  seem  to  reveal  to  us  the  preoccupations  of 
his  own  mind.  The  thought  that  pleases  him  recurs  in 
many  settings.  But  the  dramatic  scheme  comes  first ; 
for  except  in  cases  where  it  serves  as  a  mere  excuse,  the 
scheme  is  the  language  of  a  playwright.     As  he  grew 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  157 

in  power,  Shakespeare  made  his  scheme  more  and 
more  adequate  to  express  his  thought,  so  that  in  his 
great  tragedies  there  is  no  escape  from  it.  Comedy, 
History,  Tragedy,  the  old  order  of  the  plays,  gives  a 
true  enough  statement  of  the  development  of  his  art 
and  the  progress  of  his  mind.  What  remains  to  say 
may  therefore  be  loosely  arranged  in  this  order. 

In  the  Comedies  much  is  sacrificed  to  the  story, 
and  the  implements  of  Shakespeare's  comic  stage  —  the 
deceits  and  mistakes  and  cross-purposes  —  are  used  to 
maintain  suspense  and  prolong  the  interest.  Criticism 
of  human  life  occurs  incidentally,  but  can  hardly  be 
said  to  dictate  the  plot,  which,  especially  in  the  earlier 
Comedies,  is  sometimes  as  symmetrical  and  artificial 
as  the  plot  of  a  comic  opera.  The  audience,  it  is 
clear,  were  concerned  chiefly  with  the  event,  and  in 
his  effort  to  hold  their  attention  he  often  intro- 
duces a  new  complication  when  the  main  story  has 
reached  its  natural  close.  So,  in  The  Merchant  of 
Venice,  when  happiness  is  full  in  sight,  we  are  thrown 
back  into  uncertainty  by  the  question  of  the  rings. 
When  the  plot  against  Hero,  in  Much  Ado,  is  success- 
fully unravelled,  she  is  not  restored  at  once  to  Claudio ; 
a  new  trick  is  devised,  there  is  a  scene  of  solemn 
lament  for  Hero,  whom  we  know  to  be  alive,  and 
Claudio  is  offered,  and  accepts,  the  hand  of  another 
lady,  who  proves,  in  the  last  scene  of  all,  to  be  his 
injured  love.  Those  whose  sympathies  have  been 
captured  by  the  human  situation  may  well  feel  some 
impatience  with  Shakespeare's  habitually  delayed 
solutions.  It  is  an  unpardonable  indignity  that  is 
put  upon  Isabella,  in  Measure  for  Measure,  when  the 
disguised  Duke,  who  is  by  way  of  being  the  good 
angel  of  the  piece,  deludes  her  into  thinking  that  her 
brother  is  dead,  and  keeps  her  crying  her  complaints 


158  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

in  the  street,  in  order  that  he  may  play  a  game  of  cat 
and  mouse  with  the  wicked  deputy.  All  this  is  done, 
he  alleges,  that  the  case  against  Angelo  may  proceed 

By  cold  gradation  and  well-balanced  form ; 

but  the  true  reason  for  it  is  dramatic  ;  the  crisis  must 
be  kept  for  the  end.  So  Isabella,  who  deserved  to 
hear  the  truth,  is  sacrificed  to  the  plot. 

The  stories  chosen  for  the  plots  of  the  Comedies  are 
such  as  are  found  in  great  plenty  in  the  novels  of  the 
time.  Some  of  them,  as  for  instance  the  story  of  the 
Comedy  of  Errors  or  of  The  Merry  Wives,  do  not  differ 
in  their  main  outlines  from  the  witty  anecdotes  of 
the  Jest-books.  Men  and  women  are  exhibited  as 
the  victims  of  mirthful  experiment,  or  of  whimsical 
accident.  The  trickery  and  practical  jesting  which 
abound  in  these  plays  would  hardly  work  out  to  a 
happy  conclusion  in  real  life.  A  joke  in  action  too 
often  leads  to  unexpected  results,  sometimes  tragic, 
sometimes  merely  squalid.  It  is  the  expense  of  spirit 
in  a  waste  of  discomfort.  Shakespeare  supplies  the 
good  wit  of  the  Hundred  Merry  Tales  with  live 
characters  and  a  real  setting,  yet  escapes  the  imputa- 
tion of  heartlessness.  He  so  bathes  his  story  in  the 
atmosphere  of  poetry  and  fantasy,  his  characters  are 
so  high-spirited  and  good-tempered  and  resourceful, 
the  action  passes  in  such  a  tempest  of  boisterous 
enjoyment,  and  is  mitigated  by  so  many  touches  of 
human  feeling,  that  the  whole  effect  remains  gracious 
and  pleasant,  and  the  master  of  the  show  is  still 
the  gentle  Shakespeare.  The  characters  of  the  pure 
Comedies  are  so  confident  in  their  happiness  that 
they  can  play  with  it,  and  mock  it,  and  put  it  to 
trials  that  would  break  fragility.  They  are  equal  to 
circumstance,  and  the  most  surprising  adventures  do 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  159 

not  disconcert  nor  depress  them.  In  a  sense  they  too, 
like  the  tragic  heroes  and  heroines,  are  the  antagonists 
of  Fate.  But  Fate,  in  the  realm  of  Comedy,  appears 
in  the  milder  and  more  capricious  character  of  Fortune, 
whose  wheel  turns  and  turns  again,  and  vindicates  the 
merry  heart.  "  Who  can  control  his  Fate  ? "  says 
Othello.  "Tis  but  Fortune;  all  is  Fortune,"  says 
Malvolio,  when  he  believes  himself  to  stand  in  favour 
with  Olivia;  "Jove,  not  I,  is  the  doer  of  this,  and  he 
is  to  be  thanked."  Olivia,  ensnared  by  the  beauty  of 
the  disguised  Viola,  gives  voice  to  the  same  creed : 

I  do  I  know  not  what,  and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind  : 
Fate,  show  thy  force  ;  ourselves  we  do  not  owe  ; 
What  is  decreed,  must  be  ;  and  be  this  so. 

And  Viola,  in  like  fashion,  trusts  to  the  event : 

O  Time,  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I  ; 
It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie. 

The  impulses  and  passions  that  shape  man's  life  to 
happy  or  unhappy  ends  seem  to  owe  their  power  to 
something  greater  than  man,  and  refuse  his  control. 
Shakespeare  gives  them  an  independent  life,  and  often 
embodies  them  in  the  supernatural  beings  who  are 
exhibited  on  his  stage.  His  witches  and  ghosts  and 
fairies  do  not  come  uncalled;  they  are  the  shadows 
and  reflections  of  the  human  mind,  creatures  of  the 
mirror,  who,  by  a  startling  and  true  psychology,  are 
brought  alive,  released  from  the  dominion  of  man's 
will,  and  established  as  his  masters.  Macbeth,  excited 
by  the  dark  hints  of  ambition,  falls  in  with  the  witches, 
and  thereafter  is  carried  with  fearful  speed  into  an 
abyss  of  crime.  Hamlet,  saddened  by  the  death  of 
his  father  and  tortured  by  the  infidelity  of  his  mother, 


100  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

receives  the  message  of  the  ghost,  which  brings  his 
suspicions  and  broodings  to  a  point,  and  makes  him 
thenceforward  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  destiny. 
In  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  the  inexplicable  whims 
and  changes  of  inconstant  love  seem  to  be  the  work  of 
the  fairies,  sporting,  not  malevolently,  with  human 
weakness.  The  desire  of  the  eyes,  which  is  the  mo- 
tive-power of  Shakespeare's  earlier  romantic  plays, 
is  exhibited  in  many  beautiful  and  fanciful  guises, 
transforming  itself  into  passion  or  caprice,  and  irre- 
sistibly leading  its  victims  to  unexpected  goals.  It 
creates  its  own  values,  and  has  no  commerce  with 
reason.  The  doctrine  of  this  youthful  love,  in  its 
lighter  aspects,  is  set  forth  by  Helena  in  A  Midsummer 
NigMs  Dream : 

Things  base  and  vile,  holding  no  quantity, 
Love  can  transpose  to  form  and  dignity  ;  — 

and  is  illustrated  by  the  infatuation  of  Titania.  It 
is  expounded  once  more  by  the  Duke  in  Twelfth 
Night : 

O  spirit  of  Love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou, 
That  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 
Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there 
Of  what  validity  and  pitch  so  e'er 
Bat  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price 
Even  in  a  minute  ;  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy, 
That  it  alone  is  high  fantastical. 


»->' 


But  perhaps  the  best  commentary  on  these  younger 
plays  is  to  be  found  in  the  famous  lines  wherein 
Marlowe,  describing  how  Leander  first  saw  Hero,  pays 
his  tribute  to  the  "  force  and  virtue  of  an  amorous 
look." 

It  lies  not  in  our  power  to  love  or  hate, 
For  will  in  us  is  over-ruled  by  Fate. 


v  ]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  1G1 

When  two  are  stripped,  long  ere  the  course  begin 
We  wish  that  one  should  lose,  the  other  win  ; 
And  one  especially  do  we  affect 
Of  two  gold  ingots,  like  in  each  respect. 
The  reason  no  man  knows ;  let  it  suffice 
What  we  behold  is  censured  by  our  eyes. 
Where  both  deliberate,  the  love  is  slight ; 
Who  ever  loved,  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ? 

The  summons  is  as  inevitable  and  unforeseen  as  that  of 
death ;  it  comes  to  all,  clown  and  courtier,  wayward 
youth  and  serious  maiden,  leading  them  forth  on  the 
dance  of  Love  through  that  maze  of  happy  adventure 
which  is  Shakespeare's  Comedy.  None  refuses  the 
call,  none  is  studious  to  reckon  the  cost.  Young 
gallants,  with  no  intent  to  turn  husband,  go  on  the 
slightest  errand  to  the  Antipodes,  and  run  to  meet 
their  fate.  Delicate  girls,  brought  up  in  seclusion  and 
luxury,  put  on  hose  and  doublet  and  follow  their 
defaulting  lovers  to  the  wild-wood,  or  to  the  court  of 
a  foreign  potentate.  The  disguises  and  mistaken 
identities  which  are  a  stock  device  of  the  Comedies  do 
not  recur  in  the  Tragedies.  Youth  is  eager  to  multiply 
events,  and  to  quicken  the  pace  of  life.  But  the  world, 
which  seemed  so  slow  to  start,  when  once  it  is  set 
a-going  moves  all  too  fast.  "  I  would  set  up  my 
tabernacle  here,"  says  Charles  Lamb  in  the  gravest  of 
his  essays  ;  "  I  am  content  to  stand  still  at  the  age  to 
which  I  am  arrived ;  I,  and  my  friends,  to  be  no 
younger,  no  richer,  no  handsomer.  I  do  not  want  to 
be  weaned  by  age,  or  drop,  like  mellow  fruit,  as  they 
say,  into  the  grave."  These  are  the  words  of  a  man 
who  knew  the  tragedy  of  life.  When  Shakespeare,  in 
the  fulness  of  his  powers,  came  to  close  grips  with 
reality,  he  put  away  all  those  mechanical  expedients 
wherewith  he  had  enlivened  his  early  Comedies.     He 

M 


162  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

too  learned  that  in  the  duel  with  Fate  man  is  not  the 
hunter,  but  the  game,  and  that  a  losing  match  nobly 
played  is  his  only  possible  victoiy.  The  poet  of  Zeal- 
and Othello  was  the  fitter  for  the  contest  in  that  he  had 
known  the  illimitable  happiness  and  buoyancy  of 
youth.  "  0  God,"  cries  Hamlet,  "  I  could  be  bounded 
in  a  nutshell,  and  count  myself  a  King  of  infinite 
space;  were  it  not  that  I  have  bad  dreams."  The 
dream  of  the  Midsummer  Night  was  not  one  of  these. 
The  perfect  temper  of  the  earlier  Comedies  gives  the 
warrant  of  reality  to  the  later  and  darker  plays ;  we 
are  saved  from  the  suspicion  that  the  discords  in  the 
music  are  produced  by  some  defect  in  the  instrument, 
or  that  the  night  which  descends  on  the  poet  is  the 
night  of  blindness.  His  tragedies  become  more  solemn 
when  we  remember  that  this  awful  vision  of  the  world 
was  shown  to  a  man  cast  in  the  antique  mould  of 
humanity,  equable,  alert,  and  gay. 

When  the  gaiety  spent  itself,  and  Shakespeare's 
mind  was  centred  on  tragic  problems,  the  themes  of  his 
later  and  darker  Comedies  were  still  drawn  from  the 
old  inexhaustible  source.  The  Italian  Novel,  in  its 
long  and  brilliant  history  from  the  thirteenth  to  the 
sixteenth  century,  foreshadowed  the  development  and 
change  which  is  seen  in  Shakespeare's  Comedies.  It 
began  with  witty  and  fantastic  anecdote,  borrowed,  in 
large  part,  from  the  scurrilities  of  French  minstrels. 
By  the  genius  of  Boccaccio  it  was  brought  into  closer 
touch  with  life.  He  retained  many  of  the  world-old 
jests,  gross  and  impossible,  but  he  intermixed  them 
with  another  type  of  story,  wherein  he  moves  to  pity 
and  wonder  by  narrating  memorable  histories  of 
passion.  His  chief  sixteenth  century  disciples,  to 
both  of  whom  Shakespeare  owed  much,  were  Bandello 
and  Cinthio.     These  men  carried  the  novel  still  further 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  163 

in  the  direction  of  realism.  Bandello  asserts  that  all 
his  novels  record  events  which  happened  in  his  own 
time  ;  Cinthio  also  claims  to  base  his  stories  on  fact, 
and  so  handles  them  that  they  set  forth  difficult 
problems  of  human  conduct.  Novelists  are  much  in 
the  habit  of  pretending  a  moral  purpose  ;  but  the  plea 
of  these  Renaissance  writers  was  primarily  scientific. 
They  claim  to  add  to  the  materials  for  a  science  of 
human  nature,  which  science  may  find  later  application 
in  practice.  They  are  the  Machiavels  of  private  life. 
In  the  new-found  freedom  of  that  age  men  were 
voyagers  upon  a  treacherous  unknown  sea,  and  were 
glad  to  make  acquaintance,  in  the  chart  supplied  by 
the  novelists,  with  the  extreme  possibilities  of  good 
and  evil  fortune,  crime  and  disaster,  heroism  and 
attainment.  For  a  life  full  of  accident  and  adventure 
these  stories  furnished  a  body  of  precedent  and  case- 
law.  Geoffrey  Benton,  the  English  translator  of 
Bandello,  defends  them  on  this  ground.  He  calls  the 
novels  "  that  excellent  treasury  and  full  library  of  all 
knowledge,"  and  says  that  they  yield  us  "  precedents 
for  all  cases  that  may  happen ;  both  for  imitation  of 
the  good,  detesting  the  wicked,  avoiding  a  present 
mischief,  and  preventing  any  evil  afore  it  fall."  "  By 
the  benefit  of  stories,"  he  goes  on,  "  presenting  afore 
our  eyes  a  true  calendar  of  things  of  ancient  date,  by 
the  commendation  of  virtuous  and  valiant  persons  and 
acts,  we  be  drawn  by  desire  to  tread  the  steps  of  their 
renown.  And,  on  the  other  side,  considering  the 
sinister  fortune  and  horrible  cases  which  have  happened 
to  certain  miserable  souls,  we  behold  both  the  extreme 
points  whereunto  the  frail  condition  of  man  is  subject 
by  infirmit}^ ;  and  also  are  thereby  taught,  by  the  view 
of  other  men's  harms,  to  eschew  the  like  inconveniences 
in  ourselves."  These  more  serious  aspects  of  the  Italian 


164  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

novel  are  reflected  in  Shakespeare's  graver  Comedies, 
especially  in  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  which  is  based 
on  a  story  of  Boccaccio,  and  in  Measure  for  Measure,  which 
borrows  its  plot  from  Cinthio.     In  these  plays,  as  in 
The  Merchant  of  Venice,  questions  of  casuistry  are  at 
the  root  of  the  plot,  and  Shakespeare  uses  his  theme 
in  such  a  way  as   to  suggest  the   lessons  of   his   own 
subtle  and  profound  morality.     Both  plays  have  been 
treated    with    some    distaste    by    good    critics,    who 
have  perhaps  been  repelled  rather  by  the  plots  than 
by  Shakespeare's  handling  of  them.     Of  Measure  for 
Measure  Hazlitt   says:     "This  is  a  play   as    full   of 
genius  as  it  is  of  wisdom.     Yet  there  is  an  original 
sin  in  the  nature  of  the  subject,   which  prevents  us 
from  taking  a  cordial  interest  in  it.  .  .  .     There  is  in 
general  a   want   of   passion ;  the   affections  are  at   a 
stand ;  our   sympathies  are  repulsed  and  defeated  in 
all  directions."     The  feeling  of  repulsion  is  caused  in 
part,  no  doubt,  by  the  well-nigh  intolerable  dilemma 
which  is  the  subject  of  the  play.     Of  the  alternatives 
presented   to  Isabella  neither   can    be  a   matter   for 
triumph ;  and  Shakespeare  himself   evades  the   con- 
sequences of  the  choice.     But  it  is  also  true  that  in 
this  play,  as  in  some  others,  Shakespeare  is   too  wide 
and   strong,  too   catholic  in  his  sympathies  and   too 
generous  in  his  acceptance  of  facts,  for  the  bulk  of  his 
readers.     His   suburbs  are  not  their  suburbs;  nor  is 
his  morality  their  morality.     Hazlitt  himself,  in  the 
best  word  ever  spoken  on  Shakespeare's  morals,  has 
given  the  explanation.     "  Shakespeare,"  he  says,  "  was 
in  one  sense  the  least  moral  of  all  writers ;  for  morality 
(commonly  so  called)  is  made  up  of  antipathies ;  and 
his  talent  consisted  in  sympathy  with  human  nature 
in  all  its  shapes,  degrees,  depressions,  and  elevations." 
This   is   indeed   the   everlasting  difficulty  of   Shake- 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  165 

speare  criticism,  that  the  critics  are  so  much  more 
moral  than  Shakespeare  himself,  and  so  much  less 
experienced.  He  makes  his  appeal  to  thought,  and 
they  respond  to  the  appeal  by  a  display  of  delicate 
taste.  Most  of  those  who  have  written  on  Measure  for 
Measure  are  of  one  mind  with  the  "  several  shabby 
fellows "  of  Goldsmith's  comedy ;  they  are  in  a  con- 
catenation with  the  genteel  thing,  and  are  unable 
to  bear  anything  that  is  low.  They  cannot  endure  to 
enter  such  and  such  a  place.  They  turn  away  their 
eyes  from  this  or  that  person.  They  do  not  like  to 
remember  this  or  that  fact.  Their  morality  is  made 
up  of  condemnation  and  avoidance  and  protest. 
What  they  shun  in  life  they  shun  also  in  the  drama, 
and  so  shut  their  minds  to  nature  and  to  Shakespeare. 
The  searching,  questioning  thought  of  the  play  does 
not  find  them  out,  and  they  are  deaf  to  the  commentary 
of  the  Duke : 

Thou  art  not  noble, 
For  all  the  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st 
Are  nurs'd  by  baseness.  .  .  .  Thou  art  not  thyself, 
For  thou  exist' st  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust. 

The  ready  judgments  which  are  often  passed  on 
Shakespeare's  most  difficult  characters  and  situations 
are  like  the  talk  of  children.  Childhood  is  amazingly 
moral,  with  a  confident,  dictatorial,  unflinching 
morality.  The  work  of  experience,  in  those  who  are 
capable  of  experience,  is  to  undermine  this  early 
pedantry,  and  to  teach  tolerance,  or  at  least  sus- 
pense of  judgment.  1ST  or  is  this  an  offence  to  virtue; 
rather  virtue  becomes  an  empty  name,  or  fades  into 
bare  decorum,  where  sin  is  treated  as  a  dark  and 
horrible  kind  of  eccentricity. 

In  criticisms  of  Measure  for  Measure,  weare  commonly 


166  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

presented  with  a  picture  of  Vienna  as  a  black  pit  of 
seething  wickedness ;  and  against  this  background 
there  rises  the  dazzling,  white,  and  saintly  figure  of 
Isabella.  The  picture  makes  a  good  enough  Christmas 
card,  but  it  is  not  Shakespeare.  If  the  humorous 
scenes  are  needed  only,  as  Professor  Dowden  says, 
"  to  present  without  disguise  or  extenuation  a  world 
of  moral  licence  and  corruption,"  why  are  they 
humorous  ?  The  wretches  who  inhabit  the  purlieus  of 
the  city  are  live  men,  pleasant  to  Shakespeare. 
Abhorson,  the  public  executioner,  is  infamous  by  his 
profession,  and  is  redeemed  from  infamy  by  his  pride 
in  it.  When  Pompey,  who  has  followed  a  trade  even 
lower  in  esteem,  is  offered  to  him  as  an  assistant,  his 
dignity  rebels  :  "  A  bawd,  Sir  ?  Pie  upon  him,  he  will 
discredit  our  mystery."  Pompey  himself,  the  irrele- 
vant, talkative  clown,  half  a  wit  and  half  a  dunce,  is 
one  of  those  humble,  cheerful  beings,  willing  to  help 
in  anything  that  is  going  forward,  who  are  the  main- 
stay of  human  affairs.  Hundreds  of  them  must  do 
their  daily  work  and  keep  their  appointments,  before 
there  can  be  one  great  man  of  even  moderate  dimen- 
sions. Elbow,  the  thick-witted  constable,  own  cousin 
to  Dogberry,  is  no  less  dutiful.  Froth  is  an  amiable, 
feather-headed  young  gentleman  —  to  dislike  him 
would  argue  an  ill  nature,  and  a  small  one.  Even 
Lucio  has  his  uses ;  nor  is  it  very  plain  that  in  his 
conversations  with  the  Duke  he  forfeits  Shakespeare's 
sympathy.  He  has  a  taste  for  scandal,  but  it  is  a 
mere  luxury  of  idleness  ;  though  his  tongue  is  loose,  his 
heart  is  simply  affectionate,  and  he  is  eager  to  help  his 
friend.  Lastly,  to  omit  none  of  the  figures  who  makeup 
the  background,  Mistress  Overdone  pays  a  strict  atten- 
tion to  business,  and  is  carried  to  prison  in  due  course  of 
law.     This  world  of  Vienna,  as  Shakespeare  paints  it, 


v.]  STORY   AND    CHARACTER  167 

is  not  a  black  world ;  it  is  a  weak  world,  full  of  little 
vanities  and  stupidities,  regardful  of  custom,  fond  of 
pleasure,  idle,  and  abundantly  human.  No  one  need  go 
far  to  find  it.  On  the  other  side,  over  against  the 
populace,  are  ranged  the  officers  of  the  government, 
who  are  more  respectable,  though  hardly  more  ami- 
able. The  Duke,  a  man  of  the  quickest  intelligence 
and  sympathy,  shirks  his  public  duties,  and  plays  the 
benevolent  spy.  He  cannot  face  the  odious  necessities 
of  his  position.  The  law  must  be  enforced,  and  the 
man  who  enforces  it,  putting  off  all  those  softer  human 
qualities  which  are  dearest  to  him,  must  needs  maim 
himself,  for  the  good  of  the  social  machine.  So  the 
Duke,  like  many  a  head  of  a  family  or  college,  tries 
to  keep  the  love  of  the  rebels  by  putting  his  ugly  duties 
upon  the  shoulders  of  a  deputy,  and  goes  into  exile 
to  watch  the  case  secretly  from  the  opposition  side. 
Shakespeare  does  not  condemn  him,  but  permits  him 
to  learn  from  the  careless  talk  of  Lucio  that  he  has 
gained  no  credit  by  his  default  of  duty.  In  his  place 
is  installed  the  strong  man,  the  darling  and  idol  of 
weak  governments.  The  Lord  Deputy,  Angelo,  is 
given  sole  authority,  and  is  prepared  to  put  down  lust 
and  licence  with  a  firm  hand,  making  law  absolute, 
and  maintaining  justice  without  exception.  His  de- 
fence of  the  strict  application  of  law,  as  it  is  set  forth 
in  his  speeches  to  his  colleague,  Escalus,  contains  some 
of  the  finest  and  truest  things  ever  said  on  that  topic- 
He  has  no  misgivings,  and  offers  a  convincing  proof  of 
the  need  for  severity. 

So  the  train  is  laid.  Quietly  and  naturally,  out  of 
ordinary  human  material,  by  the  operation  of  the 
forces  of  every  day,  there  is  raised  the  mount  on 
which  Claudio  and  Isabella  are  to  suffer  their  agony. 
A    question   of    police    suddenly    becomes   a    soul's 


168  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

tragedy.  Clandio  is  in  love  with  Juliet.  Her  friends 
are  opposed  to  the  match,  and  there  has  been  no 
marriage  ceremony :  meantime,  the  lovers  have  met 
secretly,  and  Juliet  is  with  child  by  him.  The  solu- 
tion offered  by  Isabella  is  short  and  simple :  "  0,  let 
him  marry  her."  But  the  new  and  stricter  reign  of 
law  has  begun,  old  peualties  have  been  revived,  and 
Claudio  must  die.  There  is  no  appeal  possible  to  the 
Duke,  who  has  disappeared ;  and  the  one  hope  left  is 
that  Isabella  may  move  the  deputy  to  take  pity  on 
her  brother.  What  she  has  to  say  is  no  answer  to 
the  reasons  which  have  convinced  Angelo  that  strict 
administration  of  the  law  is  needful.  The  case  con- 
templated has  arisen,  that  is  all.  If,  from  tender 
consideration  for  the  sinner,  the  law  is  to  be  defeated, 
will  not  the  like  considerations  arise  in  every  other 
case  ?  It  is  worth  remarking  that  Shakespeare  hardly 
makes  use  of  the  best  formal  and  casuistical  argu- 
ments employed  by  Cinthio's  heroine.  After  pleading 
the  youth  and  inexperience  of  her  brother,  and  dis- 
coursing on  the  power  of  love,  the  lady  of  the  novel 
takes  up  the  point  of  legality.  The  deputy,  she  says, 
is  the  living  law ;  if  his  commands  are  merciful,  they 
will  still  be  legal.  But  the  pleading  of  Isabella  is 
for  mercy  as  against  the  law.  The  logic  of  Angelo 
stands  unshaken  after  her  most  eloquent  assaults.  He 
believes  himself  to  be  strong  enough  to  do  his  duty ; 
he  has  suppressed  in  himself  all  sensual  pity,  but 
sense  is  not  to  be  denied,  and  it  overcomes  him  by  an 
unexpected  attack  from  another  quarter.  The  beauty 
and  grace  of  Isabella,  pleading  the  cause  of  guilty  love, 
stir  desire  in  him ;  and  he  propounds  to  her  the  dis- 
graceful terms  whereby  Claudio's  life  is  to  be  saved 
at  the  expense  of  her  honour.  She  does  not,  even  in 
thought,   entertain   the  proposal   for  an  instant,  but 


v.]  STORY  AND   CHARACTER  169 

carries  it  to  her  brother  in  the  prison,  that  her  refusal 
may  be  reinforced  by  his.  At  the  first  blush,  he  joins 
in  her  indignant  rejection  of  it.  But  when  his  imagina- 
tion gets  to  work  on  the  doom  that  is  now  certain,  he 
pleads  with  her  for  his  life.  This  is  the  last  horror, 
and  Isabella,  in  a  storm  of  passion,  withers  Claudio  by 
her  contempt.  "  Let  me  ask  my  sister  pardon,"  he  says, 
when  at  last  the  Duke  enters  ;  "  I  am  so  out  of  love 
with  life  that  I  will  sue  to  be  rid  of  it."  The  rest  of 
the  play  is  mere  plot,  devised  as  a  retreat,  to  save  the 
name  of  Comedy. 

Of  all  Shakespeare's  plays,  this  one  comes  nearest  to 
the  direct  treatment  of  a  moral  problem.  What  did 
he  think  of  it  all  ?  He  condemns  no  one,  high  or  low. 
The  meaning  of  the  play  is  missed  by  those  who  forget 
that  Claudio  is  not  wicked,  merely  human,  and  fails 
only  from  sudden  terror  of  the  dark.  Angelo  himself 
is  considerately  and  mildly  treated ;  his  hypocrisy  is 
self-deception,  not  cold  and  calculated  wickedness. 
Like  many  another  man,  he  has  a  lofty,  fanciful  idea 
of  himself,  and  his  public  acts  belong  to  this  imaginary 
person.  At  a  crisis,  the  real  man  surprises  the  play- 
actor, and  pushes  him  aside.  Angelo  had  under- 
estimated the  possibilities  of  temptation : 

O  cunning  enemy,  that  to  catch  a  saint 
With  saints  dost  bait  thy  hook  ! 

After  the  fashion  of  King  Claudius  in  Hamlet,  but 
with  more  sincerity,  he  tries  to  pray.  It  is  useless ; 
his  old  ideals  for  himself  are  a  good  thing  grown 
tedious.  While  he  is  waiting  for  the  interview  with 
Isabella,  the  blood  rushes  to  his  heart,  like  a  crowd 
round  one  who  swoons,  or  a  multitude  pressing  to  the 
audience  of  a  king.  The  same  giddiness  is  felt  by 
Bassanio  in  the  presence  of  Portia,  and  is  described  by 


170  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

him  in  almost  the  same  figures.  When  the  wickedness 
of  Angelo  is  unveiled,  Isabella  is  willing  to  make 
allowances  for  him  : 

I  partly  think 
A  due  sincerity  governed  his  deeds, 
Till  he  did  look  on  me. 

But  he  is  dismayed  when  he  thinks  of  his  fall,  and 
asks  for  no  allowance  : 

So  deep  sticks  it  in  my  penitent  heart, 

That  I  crave  death  more  willingly  than  mercy  ; 

'Tis  my  deserving,  and  I  do  entreat  it. 

Shakespeare,  it  is  true,  does  not  follow  the  novel  by 
marrying  him  to  Isabella,  but  he  invents  Mariana  for 
him,  and  points  him  to  happiness. 

Is  the  meaning  of  the  play  centred  in  the  part  of 
Isabella  ?  She  is  severe,  and  beautiful,  and  white  with 
an  absolute  whiteness.  Yet  it  seems  that  even  she  is 
touched  now  and  again  by  Shakespeare's  irony.  She 
stands  apart,  and  loses  sympathy  as  an  angel  might 
lose  it,  by  seeming  to  have  too  little  stake  in  humanity  : 

Then  Isabel  live  chaste,  and  brother  die  ; 
More  than  our  brother  is  our  chastity. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  rhyming  tag  that  gives  to  this  a 
certain  explicit  and  repulsive  calmness  :  at  the  end  of 
his  scenes  Shakespeare  often  makes  his  most  cherished 
characters  do  the  menial  explanatory  work  of  a  chorus. 
He  treats  Cordelia  no  better,  without  the  excuse,  in 
this  case,  of  a  scene  to  be  closed : 

For  thee,  oppressed  king,  I  am  cast  down  ; 
Myself  could  else  outfrown  false  Fortune's  frown. 

When  we  first  make  acquaintance  with  her,  Isabella 
is  on  the  eve  of  entering  a  cloister ;  we  overhear  her 
talking  to  one  of  the  sisters,  and  expressing  a  wish 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  171 

that  a  more  strict  restraint  were  imposed  upon  the 
order.  She  is  an  ascetic  by  nature,  and  some  of  the 
Duke's  remarks  on  the  vanity  of  self-regarding  virtue, 
though  they  are  addressed  to  Angelo,  seem  to  glance 
delicately  at  her.  Shakespeare  has  left  us  in  no  doubt 
concerning  his  own  views  on  asceticism  ;  his  poems 
and  plays  are  full  of  eloquent  passages  directed  against 
self-culture  and  the  celibate  ideal.  In  a  wonderful  line 
of  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  he  pictures  the  sister- 
hood of  the  cloister  — 

Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 

There  is  a  large  worldliness  about  him  which  makes 
him  insist  on  the  doctrine  of  usury.  Virtue,  he  holds, 
is  empty  without  beneficence  : 

No  man  is  the  lord  of  anything, 
Till  he  communicate  his  parts  to  others. 

He  goes  further,  and,  in  a  great  passage  of  Troilus 
and  Cresskla,  teaches  how  worth  and  merit  may  not 
dare  to  neglect  or  despise  their  reflection  in  the  esteem 
of  men.  No  man  can  know  himself  save  as  he  is  known 
to  others.  Honour  is  kept  bright  by  perseverance  in 
action :  love  is  the  price  of  love.  It  is  not  by  accident 
that  Shakespeare  calls  Isabella  back  from  the  threshold 
of  the  nunnery,  and  after  passing  her  through  the 
furnace  of  trial,  marries  her  to  the  Duke.  She  too, 
like  Angelo,  is  redeemed  for  worldly  uses  ;  and  the 
seething  city  of  Vienna  had  some  at  least  of  Shake- 
speare's sympathy  as  against  both  the  true  saint  and 
the  false. 

In  this  play  there  is  thus  no  single  character  through 
whose  eyes  we  can  see  the  questions  at  issue  as  Shake- 
speare saw  them.  His  own  thought  is  interwoven  in 
every  part  of  it ;  his  care  is  to  maintain  the  balance, 


172  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

and  to  show  us  every  side.  He  stands  between  the 
gallants  of  the  playhouse  and  the  puritans  of  the  city  ; 
speaking  of  charity  and  mercy  to  these  ;  to  those  assert- 
ing the  reality  of  virtue  in  the  direst  straits,  when 
charity  and  mercy  seem  to  be  in  league  against  it. 
Even  virtue,  answering  to  a  sudden  challenge,  alarmed, 
and  glowing  with  indignation,  though  it  is  a  beautiful 
thing,  is  not  the  exponent  of  his  ultimate  judgment. 
His  attitude  is  critical  and  ironical,  expressed  in  re- 
minders, and  questions,  and  comparisons.  When  we 
seem  to  be  committed  to  one  party,  he  calls  us  back  to 
a  feeling  of  kinship  with  the  other.  He  pleads  for  his 
creatures,  as  he  pleads  in  the  Sonnets  for  his  friend: 

For  to  thy  sensual  fault  I  bring  in  sense; 
Thy  adverse  party  is  thy  Advocate. 

Measure  for  measure  :  the  main  theme  of  the  play  is 
echoed  and  re-echoed  from  speaker  to  speaker,  and 
exhibited  in  many  lights.  "  Plainly  conceive,  I  love 
you,"  says  Angelo ;  and  quick  as  lightning  comes 
Isabella's  retort : 

My  brother  did  love  Juliet ;  and  you  tell  me 
That  he  shall  die  for  7t. 

The  law  is  strict ;  but  the  offence  that  it  condemns  is 
knit  up  with  humanity,  so  that  in  choosing  a  single 
victim  the  law  seems  unjust  and  tyrannical.  Authority 
and  degree,  place  and  form,  the  very  framework  of 
human  society,  are  subjected  to  the  same  irony : 

Eespect  to  your  great  place  ;  and  let  the  devil 
Be  sometime  honour'd  for  his  burning  throne. 

The  thought  that  was  painfully  working  in  Shake- 
speare's mind  reached  its  highest  and  fullest  expression 
in  the  cry  of  King  Lear  : 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  173 

None  does  offend,  none,  I  say  none  ;  I  '11  able  'em  ; 
Take  that  of  me,  my  friend,  who  have  the  power 
To  seal  th'  accuser's  lips. 

Many  men  make  acquaintance  with  Christian  morality 
as  a  branch  of  codified  law,  and  dutifully  adopt  it  as  a 
guide  to  action,  without  the  conviction  and  insight  that 
are  the  fruit  of  experience.  A  few,  like  Shakespeare, 
discover  it  for  themselves,  as  it  was  first  discovered,  by 
an  anguish  of  thought  and  sympathy  ;  so  that  their 
words  are  a  revelation,  and  the  gospel  is  born  anew. 

This  wonderful  sympathy,  wrhich,  more  than  any 
other  of  his  qualities,  is  the  secret  of  Shakespeare's 
greatness,  answers  at  once  to  any  human  appeal. 
With  Lafeu,  in  All 's  Well,  it  says  to  Parolles,  "Though 
you  are  a  fool  and  a  knave,  you  shall  eat."  It  takes 
the  road  with  the  lighter-hearted  hedgerow  knave, 
Autolycus,  and  rejoices  in  his  gains :  "  I  see  this  is 
the  time  that  the  unjust  man  doth  thrive."  It  travels 
backwards  through  the  ages,  and  revives  the  solemn 
heroic  temper  of  the  Eoman  world.  It  crosses  the 
barrier  of  sex,  and  thinks  the  thoughts,  and  speaks 
the  language,  of  women. 

Shakespeare's  characters  of  women,  as  they  are 
drawn  even  in  his  earliest  plays,  take  us  into  a 
world  unknown  to  his  master  Marlowe,  with  whom 
women  are  prizes  or  dreams.  The  many  excellent 
essays  that  have  been  written  on  this  topic  make  too 
much,  perhaps,  of  individual  differences  among  the 
heroines  of  the  Comedies.  Rosalind,  Portia,  Beatrice, 
Viola,  are  at  least  as  remarkable  for  their  similarities 
as  for  their  differences.  The  hesitancy  of  Silvia,  in 
The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  when  she  returns  his 
letter  to  Valentine,  anticipates  the  shy  speech  of 
Portia  to  Bassanio,  or  of  Beatrice  to  Benedick:  "It 
were  as  possible  for   me,"  says  Beatrice,  "  to  say  I 


174  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

loved  nothing  so  well  as  you,  but  believe  me  not,  and 
yet  I  lie  not,  I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing,  I 
am  sorry  for  my  cousin."  The  scene,  in  the  same  play, 
where  Julia  makes  a  catalogue  of  her  lovers  for  the 
criticism  of  Lucetta,  is  an  earlier  and  fainter  sketch 
of  the  conversation  between  Portia  and  Nerissa.  Pope 
remarked  that  "  every  single  character  in  Shakespeare 
is  as  much  an  individual  as  those  in  life  itself ;  it  is 
as  impossible  to  find  any  two  alike.  Had  all  the 
speeches,"  he  continues,  "  been  printed  without  the 
very  names  of  the  persons,  I  believe  one  might  have 
applied  them  with  certainty  to  every  speaker."  The 
remark  is  almost  true  as  regards  any  single  play  ;  but 
it  would  be  a  difficult  task  indeed  to  appropriate  to 
their  speakers  all  the  wit-sallies  of  Beatrice  and  Rosa- 
lind, or  to  distinguish  character  in  every  line  of  their 
speeches.  Yet  all  alike  are  women ;  hardly  anything 
that  they  speak  in  their  own  characters  could  have 
been  spoken  by  men.  It  is  possible  to  extract  from 
the  plays  some  kind  of  general  statement  which,  if  it 
be  not  universally  true  of  women,  is  at  least  true  of 
Shakespeare's  women.  They  are  almost  all  practical, 
impatient  of  mere  words,  clear-sighted  as  to  ends  and 
means.  They  do  not  accept  the  premises  to  deny  the 
conclusion,  or  decorate  the  inevitable  with  imaginative 
lendings.  "  Never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go,"  says  the 
practical  Lucetta  to  her  mistress.  When  the  steward 
in  All 's  Well  comes  to  the  Countess  with  a  long  tale 
about  the  calendar  of  his  past  endeavours,  and  the 
wound  done  to  modesty  by  those  who  publish  their 
own  deservings,  she  cuts  through  his  web  of  speech  at 
a  blow :  "  What  does  this  knave  here  ?  Get  you  gone, 
sirra :  the  complaints  I  have  heard  of  you  I  do  not  all 
believe ;  't  is  my  slowness  that  I  do  not."  The  same 
quickness   of    apprehension    is   seen   in    those  many 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  175 

passages  where  Shakespeare's  "women  express  their 
contempt  for  all  the  plausible  embroidery  of  argu- 
ment. Hermione,  like  Volumnia,  feels  it  a  disgrace 
to  be  compelled  "to  prate  and  talk  for  life  and 
honour."  Imogen,  persecuted  by  the  attentions  of 
Cloten,  and  compelled  repeatedly  to  answer  him,  offers 
a  dainty  apology  : 

I  am  much  sorry,  Sir, 
You  put  me  to  forget  a  lady's  manners, 
By  being  so  verbal. 

Virgilia  is  addressed  by  Coriolanus  as  "  my  gracious 
silence."  Rosalind,  Portia,  Viola,  though  they  are  rich 
in  witty  and  eloquent  discourse,  are  frank  and  simple 
in  thought ;  never  deceived  by  their  own  eloquence. 
"  I  '11  do  my  best,"  says  Viola  to  the  Duke, 

To  woo  your  Lady  :  yet  a  barful  strife, 
"Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife. 

Helena  in  All 's  Well  —  the  chief  example  of  the  pur- 
suing woman  who  so  often  figures  in  the  plays  —  has 
forfeited,  by  her  practical  energy  and  resource,  the 
esteem  of  some  sentimental  critics.  But  she  gains,  in 
the  end,  the  love  of  her  husband,  and  the  admiration 
of  her  maker. 

To  multiply  instances  would  be  tedious.  Shake- 
speare's men  cannot,  as  a  class,  compare  with  his 
women  for  practical  genius.  They  can  think  and 
imagine,  as  only  Shakespeare's  men  can,  but  their 
imagination  often  masters  and  disables  them.  Self- 
deception,  it  would  seem,  is  a  male  weakness.  The 
whole  controversy  is  summarised  in  the  difference 
between  Macbeth  and  his  wife.  She  knows  him  well, 
and  has  no  patience  with  his  scruples  and  dallyings  : 

What  tbou  wouldst  highly, 
That  wouldst  thou  holily  :  wouldst  not  play  false, 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win. 


176  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

For  her,  all  the  details  and  consequences  of  the  crime 
are  accepted  with  the  crime  itself.  Her  mind  refuses 
to  go  behind  the  first  crucial  decision,  or  to  waste 
precious  time  by  speculating  on  the  strangeness  of 
things.  But  he,  though  he  bends  up  each  corporal 
agent  to  the  terrible  feat,  cannot  thus  control  the 
activities  of  his  mind,  or  subdue  them  to  a  single 
practical  end.  His  imagination  will  not  be  denied 
its  ghastly  play ;  he  sees  the  murder  as  a  single 
incident  in  the  moving  history  of  human  woe,  or 
forgets  the  need  of  the  moment  in  the  intellectual 
interest  of  his  own  sensations.  When  he  acts,  he 
acts  in  a  frenzy  which  procures  him  oblivion. 

Because  they  do  not  ask  questions  of  life,  and  do 
not  doubt  or  deliberate  concerning  the  fundamental 
grounds  for  action,  Shakespeare's  women  are,  in  the 
main,  either  good  or  bad.  The  middle  region  of 
character,  where  mixed  motives  predominate,  belongs 
chiefly  to  the  men.  The  women  act  not  on  thought, 
but  on  instinct,  which,  once  it  is  accepted,  admits  of 
no  argument.  The  subtlety  and  breadth  of  Shake- 
speare's knowledge  of  feminine  instinct  cannot  be 
overpraised.  Celia,  in  As  You  Like  It,  is  lightly 
sketched,  yet  how  demure  and  tender  she  is,  and  how 
worldly-wise.  When  her  cousin  complains  of  the 
briars  that  fill  this  working-day  world,  she  is  ready 
with  a  feminine  moral :  "  If  we  walk  not  in  the 
trodden  paths,  our  very  petticoats  will  catch  them." 
Rosalind's  easy  grace  and  voluble  wit  do  not  hide 
from  sight  those  more  delicate  touches  of  nature,  as 
when  she  half  turns  back  to  the  victorious  Orlando  — 
"  Did  you  call,  Sir  ?  "  —  or  breaks  down,  in  the  forest, 
at  the  sight  of  the  blood-stained  handkerchief,  and 
utters  the  cry  of  a  child :  "  I  would  I  were  at  home." 
It   is   by  small    indications  of  this   kind  that  Shake- 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  177 

speare  convinces  us  of  his  knowledge.  He  has  no 
general  theory ;  his  women  are  often  witty  and 
daring,  but  they  are  never  made  all  of  wit  and 
courage.  Even  Lady  Macbeth' s  courage  fails  her 
when  the  affections  of  her  childhood  strike  across 
her  memory : 

Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done't. 

Though  she  is  magnificently  rational  and  self-con- 
trolled at  the  crisis  of  the  action,  the  recoil  of  the 
senses,  which  she  had  mastered  in  her  waking 
moments,  comes  over  her  again  in  sleep :  "  Here 's 
the  smell  of  the  blood  still ;  all  the  perfumes  of 
Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this  little  hand."  So  un- 
erring is  Shakespeare's  intuition  that  he  can  sup- 
plement even  Plutarch's  narrative  with  wonderful 
additions  of  his  own  devising.  There  is  nothing  in 
the  speech  of  Volumnia,  the  Roman  matron,  more 
convincing  and  lifelike  than  the  remonstrance  which 
Shakespeare  interpolates : 

Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 
Show'd  thy  dear  mother  any  courtesy  ; 
When  she,  poor  hen,  fond  of  no  second  brood, 
Has  cluck'd  thee  to  the  wars,  and  safely  home 
Loaden  with  honour. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  behaviour  of  Cleopatra,  the 
eternal  courtesan,  more  characteristic  than  the  de- 
liberate forwardness  of  mood  which  Shakespeare,  in 
direct  opposition  to  Plutarch's  account,  invents  for 
her: 

If  you  find  him  sad, 

Say  I  am  dancing  ;  if  in  mirth,  report 

That  I  am  sudden  sick. 

AY  hen   Charmian    remarks    that    to    gain   and    keep 

N 


178  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

Antony's  love  it  were  better  to  cross  him  in  nothing, 
Cleopatra  impatiently  retorts : 

Thou  teacbest  like  a  fool :  the  way  to  lose  him. 

Yet  neither  is  Cleopatra  a  type ;  she  is  her  own  un- 
paralleled self.  Some  distant  relatives  she  has  among 
the  other  plays.  The  lesson  that  she  teaches  to 
Charmian  is  a  lesson  which  Cressida  and  Doll  Tear- 
sheet  also  know  by  instinct : 

0  foolish  Cressid  :  I  might  have  still  held  off, 
And  then  you  would  have  tarried. 

But  Cressida  is  weaker,  lighter,  more  wavering,  than 
the  tragic  Queen  who,  when  she  hears  that  Antony 
has  married  Octavia,  is  wounded  to  the  quick,  and 
cries  out : 

Pity  me,  Charmian ; 
But  do  not  speak  to  me. 

And  Doll  Tearsheet,  with  only  a  small  measure  of  the 
same  craft,  has  the  wealth  of  homely  affection  and 
plebeian  good-fellowship  which  belongs  to  a  lowlier 
world:  "Come,  I'll  be  friends  with  thee,  Jack;  thou 
art  going  to  the  wars,  and  whether  I  shall  ever  see 
thee  again  or  no,  there  is  nobody  cares."  Shakespeare, 
like  Nature,  is  careful  of  the  type ;  but,  unlike  Nature, 
he  cares  even  more  for  the  life  of  the  individual. 

With  Ophelia,  Desdemona,  Cordelia,  his  art  is  yet 
more  wonderful,  for  it  works  in  fewer  words.  None 
of  these  characters  is  theorised ;  none  belongs  to  a  type. 
Each  is,  in  a  sense,  born  of  the  situation,  and  inspired 
by  it.  The  deserted  maiden,  the  loyal  wife,  the 
daughter  who  becomes  her  father's  protector  —  none  of 
them  has  a  thought  or  a  feeling  that  forgets  the  situa- 
tion and  her  own  part  in  it,  so  that  all  of  them  win 
the  love  of  the  reader  by  their  very  simplicity  and 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  17'.) 

intensity.  If  Shakespeare  had  been  called  on  to  draw 
generic  portraits  of  those  three  types,  he  would  have 
despised  the  attempt.  On  his  theatre,  as  in  life, 
character  is  made  by  opportunity,  and  welded  to 
endurance  by  the  blows  of  Fate.  The  most  beautiful 
characters  of  his  creation  depend  for  their  beauty  on 
their  impulsive  response  to  the  need  of  the  moment. 
"  Through  the  whole  of  the  dialogue  appropriated  to 
Desdemona,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson,  "  there  is  not  one 
general  observation.  Words  are  with  her  the  vehicle 
of  sentiment,  and  never  of  reflection."  It  may  well  be 
doubted  whether  Shakespeare  was  fully  conscious  of 
this.  He  worked  from  the  heart  outwards  ;  and  his 
instinct  fastened  on  the  right  words.  An  elaborate 
metaphor  on  Desdemona's  lips  would  have  shocked 
his  sense  of  fitness,  as,  now  that  we  know  her,  it  would 
shock  ours.  The  first  greeting  that  she  exchanges 
with  Othello,  when  he  lands  at  Cyprus,  is  of  a  piece 
with  all  that  she  says.  "  0,  my  fair  warrior,"  says 
Othello,  whose  imagination,  as  well  as  his  heart,  is  in 
her  service.  For  Desdemona  the  unadorned  truth 
is  enough ;  and  she  replies :  "  My  dear  Othello." 
Cordelia's  most  moving  speeches  are  as  simple  as  this. 
Ophelia  is  so  real  that  differences  of  critical  opinion 
concerning  her  throw  light  on  nothing  but  the  critics. 
Coleridge  thought  her  the  purest  and  loveliest  of 
Shakespeare's  women  ;  some  other  critics  have  cried 
out  on  her  timidity  and  pettiness.  If  she  could  be 
brought  to  life,  and  introduced  to  her  judges,  these 
differences  would  no  doubt  persist.  Fortunately,  they 
are  of  comparatively  little  account ;  when  a  fixed 
verdict  on  one  of  his  characters  is  essential  to  Shake- 
speare's dramatic  purpose,  he  does  not  leave  his 
readers  in  doubt. 

The  comparative  simplicity  of  character  which  dis- 


180  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

tinguishes  Shakespeare's  women  from  his  men  is 
maintained  throughout  the  plays.  Cleopatra,  unlike 
Antony,  is  at  one  with  herself,  and  entertains  no 
divided  counsels.  Regan  and  Goneril  do  not  go 
motive-hunting,  like  Iago ;  they  are  hard  and  cruel 
and  utterly  self-assured.  They  have  the  certainty 
and  ease  in  action  that  Hamlet  coveted  : 

With  wings  as  swift 
As  meditation,  or  the  thoughts  of  love, 
They  sweep  to  their  revenge. 

A  similar  confidence  inspires  the  beautiful  company 
of  Shakespeare's  self-devoted  heroines.  There  is  no 
Hamlet  among  them,  no  Jaques,  no  Biron.  Their  wit 
is  quick  and  searching  ;  but  it  is  wholly  at  the  command 
of  their  will,  and  is  never  employed  to  disturb  or 
destroy.  Love  and  service  are  as  natural  to  them  as 
breathing.  They  are  the  sunlight  of  the  plays, 
obscured  at  times  by  clouds  and  storms  of  melancholy 
and  misdoing,  but  never  subdued  or  defeated.  In  the 
Comedies  they  are  the  spirit  of  happiness  ;  in  the 
Tragedies  they  are  the  only  warrant  and  token  of 
ultimate  salvation,  the  last  refuge  and  sanctuary  of 
faith.  If  Othello  had  died  blaspheming  Desdemona, 
if  Lear  had  refused  to  be  reconciled  with  Cordelia, 
there  would  be  good  reason  to  talk  of  Shakespeare's 
pessimism.  As  it  is,  there  is  no  room  for  such  a 
discussion;  in  the  wildest  and  most  destructive 
tempest  his  sheet-anchors  hold. 

The  Historical  plays  occupy  a  middle  place  in  the 
Folio,  and,  in  the  process  of  Shakespeare's  development, 
are  a  link  between  Comedy  and  Tragedy.  Plays 
founded  on  English  history  were  already  popular  when 
Shakespeare  began  to  write  ;  and  while  he  was  still  an 
apprentice,  their  tragic  possibilities  had  been  splendidly 


v.]  STORY  AND   CHARACTER  181 

demonstrated  in  Marlowe's  Edward  II.  He  very  early- 
turned  his  hand  to  them,  and  the  exercise  that  they 
gave  him  steadied  his  imagination,  and  taught  him 
how  to  achieve  a  new  solidity  and  breadth  of  repre- 
sentation. By  degrees  he  ventured  to  intermix  the 
treatment  of  high  political  affairs  with  familiar  pictures 
of  daily  life,  so  that  what  might  otherwise  have  seemed 
stilted  and  artificial  was  reduced  to  ordinary  standards, 
and  set  against  a  background  of  verisimilitude  and 
reality.  His  Comedy,  timidly  at  first,  and  at  last 
triumphantly,  intruded  upon  his  History ;  his  vision  of 
reality  was  widened  to  include  in  a  single  perspective 
courts  and  taverns,  kings  and  highwaymen,  diplomatic 
conferences,  battles,  street  brawls,  and  the  humours  of 
low  life.  He  gave  us  the  measure  of  his  own  magna- 
nimity in  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.,  a  play  of  incom- 
parable ease,  and  variety,  and  mastery.  Thence, 
having  perfected  himself  in  his  craft,  he  passed  on  to 
graver  themes,  and,  with  Plutarch  for  his  text-book, 
resuscitated  the  world-drama  of  the  Eomans ;  or 
breathed  life  into  those  fables  of  early  British  history 
which  he  found  in  Holinshed.  His  studies  in  English 
history  determined  his  later  dramatic  career,  and 
taught  him  the  necromancer's  art  — 

To  outrun  hasty  time,  retrieve  the  fates, 
Roll  back  the  heavens,  blow  ope  the  iron  gates 
Of  death  and  Lethe,  where  confused  lie 
Great  heaps  of  ruinous  mortality. 

He  revived  dead  princes  and  heroes,  and  set  them  in 
action  on  a  stage  crowded  with  life  and  manners. 

That  love  of  incongruity  and  diversity  which  is 
the  soul  of  a  humorist  had  already  manifested  itself 
in  his  early  comedies.  The  gossamer  civilisation  of 
the  fairies  is  judged  by  Bottom  the  "Weaver,  who,  in 


182  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

his  turn,  along  with  his  rustic  companions,  must  un- 
dergo the  courtly  criticism  of  Duke  Theseus  and  the 
Queen  of  the  Amazons.  In  Love's  Labour 's  Lost,  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  and  As  You  Like  It,  to  name  no  others, 
affairs  of  political  import  colour,  by  their  neighbour- 
hood, the  affections  and  fortunes  of  the  lovers.  But 
it  is  in  the  Historical  plays  that  comedy  is  first  perfectly 
blended  with  serious  political  interest.  Shakespeare's 
instinct  for  reality,  his  suspicion  of  all  that  will  not 
bear  to  be  brought  into  contact  with  the  gross  elements, 
made  him  willing  to  use  comedy  and  tragedy  as  a 
touchstone  the  one  for  the  other.  Nothing  that  is 
real  in  either  of  them  can  be  damaged  by  the  contact. 
It  is  the  sham  solemnity  of  grief  that  is  impaired  or 
broken  by  laughter,  and  the  empty  heartless  jest  that 
is  made  to  seem  inhuman  by  contrast  with  the  sadness 
of  mortal  destiny.  The  tragic  and  the  comic  jostle 
each  other  in  life :  their  separation  is  the  work  of 
ceremony,  not  of  nature.  A  political  people  like  the 
Greeks,  with  their  passionate  belief  in  the  State,  will 
impose  their  sense  of  public  decorum  upon  the  drama; 
but  the  more  irresponsible  modern  temper  is  not 
content  to  forgo  the  keen  intellectual  pleasure  of 
paradox  and  contrast.  The  description  of  a  funeral  in 
Scott's  Journal  is  a  picture  after  the  modern  manner : 
"  There  is  such  a  mixture  of  mummery  with  real  grief 
—  the  actual  mourner  perhaps  heart-broken,  and  all 
the  rest  making  solemn  faces,  and  whispering  observa- 
tions on  the  weather  and  public  news,  and  here  and 
there  a  greedy  fellow  enjoying  the  cake  and  wine. 
To  me  it  is  a  farce  full  of  most  tragical  mirth." 
Shakespeare  keeps  the  mirth  and  the  tragedy  close 
together,  with  no  disrespect  done  to  either.  He 
narrates  serious  events,  and  portrays  great  crises  in 
history,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  comic  chorus.     He 


v.]  STORY    AND    CHARACTER  183 

admits  us  to  the  King's  secret  thoughts,  and  lets  us 
overhear  the  grumbling  of  the  carriers  in  the  innyard 
at  Rochester.  We  witness  the  earl  of  Northumberland's 
passion  over  the  death  of  his  son,  and  sit  in  Justice 
Shallow's  garden  to  talk  of  pippins  and  carraways. 
War  is  shown  in  its  double  aspect,  as  it  appears  to 
the  statesman  and  to  the  recruiting-sergeant.  For  a 
last  reach  of  boldness,  the  same  characters  are  hurried 
through  many  diverse  scenes,  and  the  same  events  are 
exhibited  in  their  greater  and  lesser  effects.  The  for- 
tunes of  the  kingdom  call  the  revellers  away  from  the 
tavern.  The  Prince's  royalty  is  not  obscured  under 
his  serving-man's  costume,  nor  is  Sir  John  Falstaff's 
wit  abated  in  the  midst  of  death  and  battle. 

In  Shakespeare's  earlier  historical  work  a  certain 
formality  and  timidity  of  imagination  make  themselves 
felt.  His  bad  kings,  Eichard  the  Third  and  John, 
are  not  wholly  unlike  the  villains  of  melodrama. 
King  Richard  is  an  explanatory  sinner : 

Therefore,  since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover, 
To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days, 
I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain. 

King  John,  in  his  murderous  instructions  to  Hubert, 
expresses  a  wish  for  the  fitting  stage  effects,  dark- 
ness, and  the  churchyard,  and  the  sound  of  the 
passing-bell.  All  this  is  far  enough  removed  from 
the  sureness  of  Shakespeare's  later  handling  of  similar 
themes.  From  the  first  he  gave  dramatic  unity  to 
his  Histories  by  building  them  round  the  character 
of  the  king.  To  those  who  lived  under  the  rule  of 
Elizabeth,  and  whose  fathers  had  been  the  subjects 
of  Henry  viii.,  it  would  have  seemed  a  foolish  paradox 
to  maintain  that  the  character  of  the  ruler  was  a 
cause  of  small  importance  in  the  making  of  history. 


184  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

But  these  kings  of  the  earlier  plays  are  seen  distantly, 
through  a  veil  of  popular  superstition ;  the  full  irony 
of  the  position  is  not  yet  realised;  as  if  it  we're  so 
easy  to  be  a  good  king  that  nothing  but  a  double  dose 
of  original  sin  can  explain  the  failure.  It  was  a  great 
advance  in  method  when  Shakespeare,  in  Richard  II, 
brought  the  king  to  the  ordinary  human  level,  and 
set  himself  to  conceive  the  position  from  within. 

Richard  II.  is  among  the  Histories  what  Romeo  and 
Juliet  is  among  the  Tragedies,  an  almost  purely  lyrical 
drama,  swift  and  simple.  Richard  is  possessed  by 
the  sentiment  of  royalty,  moved  by  a  poet's  delight 
in  its  glitter  and  pomp,  and  quick  to  recognise  the 
pathos  of  its  insecurity.  There  is  nothing  that  we 
feel  in  contemplating  his  tragic  fall  which  is  not 
taught  us  by  himself.  Our  pity  for  him,  our  sense 
of  the  cruelty  of  fate,  are  but  a  reflection  of  his  own 
moving  and  subtle  poetry.  Weakness  there  is  in  him, 
but  it  hardly  endears  him  the  less ;  it  is  akin  to  the 
weakness  of  Hamlet  and  of  Falstaff,  who  cannot  long 
concentrate  their  minds  on  a  narrow  practical  problem ; 
cannot  refuse  themselves  that  sudden  appeal  to  uni- 
versal considerations  which  is  called  philosophy  or 
humour.  Like  them,  Richard  juggles  with  thought 
and  action :  he  is  a  creature  of  impulse,  but  when  his 
impulse  is  foiled,  he  lightly  discounts  it  at  once  by 
considering  it  in  relation  to  the  stars  and  the  great 
scheme  of  things.  What  is  failure,  in  a  world  where 
all  men  are  mortal  ?  Sometimes  the  beating  of  his 
own  heart  rouses  him  to  fitful  activity : 

Proud  Bolingbroke,  I  come 
To  change  blows  with  thee  for  our  day  of  doom. 

Then  again  he  relapses  into  the  fatalistic  mood  of 
thought,  which  he  beautifies  with  humility  : 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  185 

Strives  Bolingbroke  to  be  as  great  as  we  ? 
Greater  he  shall  not  be  :  if  he  serve  God, 
We  '11  serve  him  too,  and  be  his  fellow  so. 


The  language  of  resignation  is  natural  to  him ;  his 
weakness  finds  refuge  in  the  same  philosophic  creed 
which  is  uttered  defiantly,  on  the  scaffold,  by  the  hero 
of  Chapman's  tragedy : 

If  I  rise,  to  heaven  I  rise  ;  if  fall, 
I  likewise  fall  to  heaven  :  what  stronger  faith 
Hath  any  of  your  souls  ? 

It  is  difficult  to  condemn  Richard  without  taking 
sides  against  poetry.  He  has  a  delicate  and  prolific 
fancy,  which  flowers  into  many  dream-shapes  in  the 
prison;  a  wide  and  true  imagination,  which  expresses 
itself  in  his  great  speech  on  the  monarchy  of  Death ; 
and  a  deep  discernment  of  tragic  issues,  which  gives 
thrilling  effect  to  his  bitterest  outcry  : 

Though  some  of  you,  with  Pilate,  wash  your  hands, 
Showing  an  outward  pity,  yet  you  Pilates 
Have  here  deliver'd  me  to  my  sour  cross, 
And  water  cannot  wash  away  your  sin. 

The  mirror-scene  at  the  deposition  —  which,  like  the 
sleep-walking  scene  in  Macbeth,  seems  to  have  been 
wholly  of  Shakespeare's  invention  —  is  a  wonderful 
summary  and  parable  of  the  action  of  the  play.  The 
mirror  is  broken  against  the  ground,  and  the  armed 
attendants  stand  silent,  waiting  to  take  Richard  to  the 
Tower. 

For  all  the  intimacy  and  sympathy  of  the  por- 
traiture, we  are  not  permitted  to  lose  sight  of 
Richard's  essential  weakness.  The  greater  part  of 
the  Third  Act  is  devoted  to  showing,  with  much 
emphasis  and  repetition,  how  helpless  and  unstable  he 


180  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

is  at  a  crisis.  If  Richard  was  Shakespeare,  as  some 
critics  have  held,  he  was  not  the  whole  of  Shakespeare. 
Even  while  the  play  was  writing,  the  design  for  a 
sequel  and  contrast  was  beginning  to  take  shape.  The 
matter  of  the  plays  that  were  to  follow  is  foreshadowed 
in  the  Queen's  lamenting  address  to  Richard  : 

Thou  most  beauteous  inn, 
Why  should  hard-favour' d  Grief  be  lodg'd  in  thee, 
When  Triumph  is  become  an  ale-house  guest? 

Over  against  Richard  it  was  Shakespeare's  plan  to 
set,  not  the  crafty  and  reserved  Bolingbroke,  hut  his 
son,  King  Henry  v.,  the  darling  of  the  people,  a  lusty 
hero,  open  of  heart  and  hand,  unthrifty  and  dissolute 
in  his  youth,  in  his  riper  age  the  support  and  glory  of 
the  nation.  The  academy  where  the  hero  was  to 
graduate  was  to  be  Shakespeare's  own  school,  the  life 
of  the  tavern  and  the  street. 

It  was  a  contrast  of  brilliant  promise,  and,  if  a  choice 
must  be  made,  it  is  not  hard  to  determine  on  which 
side  Shakespeare's  fuller  sympathies  lay.  The  king 
who  was  equal  to  circumstance  was  the  king  for  him. 
Yet  Henry  v.,  it  may  be  confessed,  is  not  so  inwardly 
conceived  as  Richard  n.  His  qualities  are  more 
popular  and  commonplace.  Shakespeare  plainly 
admires  him,  and  feels  towards  him  none  of  that 
resentment  which  the  spectacle  of  robust  energy 
and  easy  success  produces  in  weaker  tempers.  If 
Henry  v.,  as  Prince  and  King,  seems  to  fall  short 
in  some  respects  of  the  well-knit  perfection  that  was 
intended,  it  is  the  price  that  he  pays  for  incautiously 
admitting  to  his  companionship  a  greater  than  himself, 
who  robs  him  of  his  virtue,  and  makes  him  a  satellite 
in  a  larger  orbit.  Less  tragic  than  Richard,  less  comic 
than  Falstaff,  the  poor  Prince  is  hampered  on  both 


v.]  STORY    AND   CHARACTER  187 

sides,  and  confined  to  the  narrower  domain  of  practical 
success. 

From  his  first  entrance  Falstaff  dominates  the  play. 
The  Prince  tries  in  vain  to  be  even  with  him  :  Falstaff, 
as  Hazlitt  has  said,  is  the  better  man  of  the  two.  He 
speaks  no  more  than  the  truth  when  he  makes  his 
claim :  "  I  am  not  only  witty  in  myself,  but  the  cause 
that  wit  is  in  other  men."  All  the  best  wit  in  the 
play  is  engineered  and  suggested  by  him  ;  even  the 
Prince,  when  he  tries  to  match  him,  falls  under  the 
control  of  the  prime  inventor,  and  makes  the  obvious 
and  expected  retorts,  which  give  occasion  for  a  yet 
more  brilliant  display  of  that  surprising  genius.  It  is 
the  measure  of  the  Prince's  inferiority  that  to  him 
Falstaff  seems  '-rather  ludicrous  than  witty,"  even 
while  all  the  wit  that  passes  current  is  being  issued 
from  Falstaff's  mint,  and  stamped  with  the  mark  of 
his  sovereignty.  The  disparity  between  the  two  char- 
acters extends  itself  to  their  kingdoms,  the  Court  and 
the  Tavern.  The  one  is  restrained,  formal,  full  of 
fatigues  and  necessities  and  ambitions ;  the  other  is 
free  and  natural,  the  home  of  zest  and  ease.  There 
are  pretences  in  both,  but  with  what  a  difference !  In 
the  one  there  is  real,  hard,  selfish  hypocrisy  and 
treachery ;  in  the  other  a  world  of  make-believe  and 
fiction,  all  invented  for  delight.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
Falstaff  attracts  to  himself  the  bulk  of  our  sympathies, 
and  perverts  the  moral  issues.  One  critic,  touched  to 
the  heart  by  the  casting-off  of  Falstaff,  so  far  forgets 
his  morality  as  to  take  comfort  in  the  reflection  that 
the  thousand  pounds  belonging  to  Justice  Shallow  is 
safe  in  Falstaff's  pocket,  and  will  help  to  provide  for 
his  old  age. 

Yet  the  Prince,  if  he  loses  the  first  place  in  our 
affections,  makes  a  brave   fight   for   it.     Shakespeare 


188  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

does  what  he  can  for  him.  He  is  valorous,  generous, 
and  high-spirited.  When  Falstaff  claims  to  have  slain 
Percy  in  single  fight,  he  puts  in  no  word  for  his  own 

prowess : 

For  my  part,  if  a  lie  may  do  thee  grace, 
I  '11  gild  it  with  the  happiest  terms  I  have. 

He  has  some  tenderness,  and  a  deeply  conceived  sense 
of  his  great  responsibilities.  Even  his  wit  would  be 
remarkable  in  any  other  company,  and  his  rich  vocabu- 
lary of  fancy  and  abuse  speaks  him  a  ready  learner. 
If  his  poetry  tends  to  rhetoric,  in  his  instinct  for  prose 
and  sound  sense  he  almost  matches  the  admirable 
Rosalind  —  "  To  say  to  thee  that  I  shall  die,  is  true  ; 
but  for  thy  love,  by  the  Lord,  no;  yet  I  love  thee, 
too."  It  is  all  in  vain ;  his  good  and  amiable 
qualities  do  not  teach  him  the  wray  to  our  hearts.  The 
"noble  change"  which  he  hath  purposed,  and  of  which 
we  hear  so  much,  taints  him  in  the  character  of 
a  boon-companion.  He  is  double-minded:  he  keeps 
back  a  part  of  the  price.  Falstaff  gives  the  whole  of 
himself  to  enjoyment,  so  that  the  strivings  and  virtues 
of  half-hearted  sinners  seem  tame  and  poor  beside  him. 
He  bestrides  the  play  like  a  Colossus,  and  the  young 
gallants  walk  under  his  huge  legs  and  peep  about  to 
find  themselves  honourable  graves.  In  all  stress  of 
circumstance,  hunted  by  misfortune  and  disgrace,  he 
rises  to  the  occasion,  so  that  the  play  takes  on  the 
colour  of  the  popular  beast-fable  ;  our  chief  concern  is 
that  the  hero  shall  never  be  outwitted ;  and  he  never  is. 
There  is  more  of  Shakespeare  in  this  amazing 
character  than  in  all  the  poetry  of  Richard  II.  Falstaff 
is  a  comic  Hamlet,  stronger  in  practical  resource,  and 
hardly  less  rich  in  thought.  He  is  in  love  with  life, 
as  Hamlet  is  out  of  love  with  it ;  he  cheats  and  lies 
and  steals  with  no  hesitation  and  no  afterthought ;  he 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  189 

runs  away  or  counterfeits  death  with  more  courage 
than  others  show  in  deeds  of  knightly  daring.  The 
accidents  and  escapades  of  his  life  give  ever  renewed 
occasion  for  the  triumph  of  spirit  over  matter,  and 
show  us  the  real  man,  above  them  all,  and  aloof  from 
them,  calm,  aristocratic,  fanciful,  scorning  opinion, 
following  his  own  ends,  and  intellectual  to  the  finger- 
tips. He  has  been  well  called  "  a  kind  of  military 
freethinker."  He  will  fight  no  longer  than  he  sees 
reason.  His  speech  on  honour  might  have  been  spoken 
by  Hamlet  —  with  what  a  different  conclusion  !  He  is 
never  for  a  moment  entangled  in  the  web  of  his  own 
deceits  ;  his  mind  is  absolutely  clear  of  cant ;  his  self- 
respect  is  magnificent  and  unfailing.  The  judgments 
passed  on  him  by  others,  kings  or  justices,  affect  him 
not  at  all,  while  there  are  few  of  these  others  who  can 
escape  with  credit  from  the  severe  ordeal  of  his  dis- 
interested judgment  upon  them.  The  character  of 
Master  Shallow  is  an  open  book  to  that  impartial 
scrutiny.  "  It  is  a  wonderful  thing,"  says  Falstaff,  "  to 
see  the  semblable  coherence  of  his  men's  spirits  and 
his  :  they,  by  observing  of  him,  do  bear  themselves  like 
foolish  justices  ;  he,  by  conversing  with  them,  is  turn'd 
into  a  justice-like  serving-man."  Yet,  for  all  his  clarity 
of  vision,  Falstaff  is  never  feared ;  there  is  no  grain  of 
malevolence  in  him  ;  wherever  he  comes  he  brings  with 
him  the  pure  spirit  of  delight. 

How  was  a  character  like  this  to  be  disposed  of? 
He  had  been  brought  in  as  an  amusement,  and  had 
rapidly  established  himself  as  the  chief  person  of  the 
play.  There  seemed  no  reason  why  he  should  not  go 
on  for  ever.  He  was  becoming  dangerous.  !N~o  serious 
action  could  be  attended  to  while  every  one  was  wait- 
ing to  see  how  Falstaff  would  take  it.  A  clear  stage 
was  needed  for  the  patriotic  and  warlike  exploits  of 


190  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

King  Harry ;  here  was  to  be  no  place  for  critics  and 
philosophers.  Shakespeare  disgraces  Falstaff,  and 
banishes  him  from  the  Court.  But  this  was  not 
enough  ;  it  was  a  part  of  Falstaffs  magnanimity  that 
disgrace  had  never  made  the  smallest  difference  to 
him,  and  had  often  been  used  by  him  as  a  stepping- 
stone  to  new  achievement.  Even  in  banishment  he 
was  likely  to  prove  as  dangerous  as  Napoleon  in  Elba. 
There  was  nothing  for  it ;  in  the  name  of  the  public 
safety,  and  to  protect  him  from  falling  into  bad  hands, 
Falstaff  must  be  put  to  death.  So  he  takes  his  last 
departure,  "  an  it  had  been  any  christom  child,"  and 
King  Harry  is  set  free  to  pursue  the  life  of  heroism. 

With  the  passing  of  Falstaff  Shakespeare's  youth  was 
ended.  All  that  wonderful  experience  of  London  life, 
all  those  days  and  nights  of  freedom  and  adventure 
and  the  wooing  of  new  pleasures,  seem  to  be  embodied 
in  this  great  figure,  the  friend  and  companion  of  the 
young.  We  can  trace  his  history,  from  his  first  boy- 
hood, when  he  broke  Scogan's  head  at  the  court  gate, 
to  his  death  in  the  second  childhood  of  delirium.  He 
was  never  old.  "  What,  ye  knaves,"  he  cries,  at  the 
assault  on  the  Gadshill  travellers,  "  young  men  must 
live."  "You  that  are  old,"  he  reminds  the  Chief 
Justice,  "  consider  not  the  capacities  of  us  that  are 
young."  The  gods,  loving  him,  decreed  that  he  should 
die  as  he  was  born,  with  a  white  head  and  a  round 
belly,  in  the  prime  of  his  joyful  days. 

He  was  brought  to  life  again,  by  Royal  command, 
in  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor;  but  his  devoted 
admirers  have  never  been  able  to  accept  that  play  for 
a  part  of  his  history.  The  chambering  and  wanton- 
ness of  amorous  intrigue  suits  ill  with  his  indomitable 
pride  of  spirit.  It  is  good  to  hear  the  trick  of  his 
voice  again  ;  and  his  wit  has  not  lost  all  its  brightness. 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  191 

But  he  is  fallen  and  changed  ;  he  has  lived  to  stand  at 
the  taunt  of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English,  and  is 
become  the  butt  of  citizens  and  their  romping  wives. 
Worst  of  all,  he  is  afraid  of  the  fairies.  Bottom  the 
weaver  never  fell  so  low  —  "  Scratch  my  head,  Pease- 
blossom."  Shakespeare  has  an  ill  conscience  in  this 
matter,  and  endeavours  to  salve  it  by  a  long  apology. 
"  See  now,"  says  Falstaff,  "how  wit  may  be  made  a 
Jack-a-lent,  when  't  is  upon  ill  employment."  But 
such  an  apology  is  worse  than  the  offence.  It  presents 
Falstaff  to  us  in  the  guise  of  a  creeping  moralist. 

The  historical  plays,  English  and  Roman,  have  often 
been  used  as  evidence  of  their  author's  political 
opinions.  These  opinions  have,  perhaps,  been  too 
rashly  formulated ;  yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  cer- 
tain definite  and  strong  impressions  have  been  made 
by  the  plays  on  critics  of  the  most  diverse  leanings. 
It  is  safe  to  say  that  Shakespeare  had  a  very  keen 
sense  of  government,  its  utility  and  necessity.  If  he 
is  not  a  partisan  of  authority,  he  is  at  least  a 
passionate  friend  to  order.  His  thought  is  every- 
where the  thought  of  a  poet,  and  he  views  social 
order  as  part  of  a  wider  harmony.  When  his  imagina- 
tion seeks  a  tragic  climax,  the  ultimate  disaster  and 
horror  commonly  presents  itself  to  him  as  chaos.  His 
survey  of  human  society  and  of  the  laws  that  bind 
man  to  man  is  astronomical  in  its  rapidity  and 
breadth.     So  it  is  in  the  curse  uttered  by  Timon  : 

Piety,  and  fear, 
Religion  to  the  Gods,  peace,  justice,  truth, 
Domestic  awe,  night-rest,  and  neighbourhood, 
Instruction,  manners,  mysteries,  and  trades, 
Degrees,  observances,  customs,  and  laws, 
Decline  to  your  confounding  contraries, 
And  let  confusion  live. 


192  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

So  it  is  also  in  the  great  speech  of  Ulysses,  and  in 
half  a  score  of  passages  in  the  Tragedies.  He  extols 
government  with  a  fervour  that  suggests  a  real  and 
ever-present  fear  of  the  breaking  of  the  flood-gates  ;  he 
delights  in  government,  as  painters  and  musicians 
delight  in  composition  and  balance. 

As  to  the  merits  of  differing  forms  of  government, 
that  question  was  hardly  a  live  one  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  and  seems  not  to  have  exercised  Shake- 
speare's thought.  In  Julius  Caesar,  where  the  sub- 
ject gave  him  his  chance,  he  accepts  Plutarch  for 
his  guide,  and  does  not  digress  into  political  theory. 
It  has  often  been  said  that  he  dislikes  and  distrusts 
crowds.  Certainly  the  common  people,  in  Henry  VI., 
and  Julius  Caesar,  and  Coriolanus,  are  made  ludicrous 
and  foolish.  But  after  all,  a  love  for  crowds  and  a 
reverence  for  mob-orators  are  not  so  often  found  among 
dispassionate  thinkers  as  to  make  Shakespeare's  case 
strange;  audit  is  always  to  be  remembered  that  he 
was  a  dramatist.  His  point  of  view  was  given  him 
by  the  little  group  of  his  principal  characters,  and 
there  was  no  room  for  the  people  save  as  a  fluctuat- 
ing background  or  a  passing  street-show.  We  do  not 
see  Cade  at  home.  Where  the  feelings  of  universal 
humanity  fall  to  be  expressed,  caste  and  station  are 
of  no  account ;  Macduff,  a  noble,  bereaved  of  his 
children,  speaks  for  all  mankind. 

Nevertheless,  the  impression  persists,  that  here,  and 
here  alone,  Shakespeare  exhibits  some  partiality.  It 
was  natural  enough  that  his  political  opinions  should 
take  their  colour  from  his  courtly  companions,  whose 
business  was  politics  ;  nor  was  his  own  profession  likely 
to  alter  his  sympathies.  Who  should  know  the  weak- 
nesses and  vanities  of  the  people  better  than  a 
theatrical  manager  ?      There  is  no  great  political  signi- 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  193 

ficance  in  the  question  ;  the  politics  of  the  plays  were 
never  challenged  till  America  began  to  read  human 
history  by  the  light  of  her  own  self-consciousness. 
It  is  true  that  Shakespeare  is  curiously  impatient 
of  dulness,  and  that  he  pays  scant  regard,  aud  does 
no  justice,  to  men  of  slow  wit.  He  never  emancipated 
himself  completely  from  the  prejudices  of  verbal  edu- 
cation :  to  be  a  stranger  to  all  that  brilliant  craftsman- 
ship and  all  those  subtle  dialectical  processes  which  had 
given  him  so  much  pleasure  was  to  forfeit  some  hold  on 
his  sympathy.  His  clowns  and  rustics  are  often  the 
merest  mechanisms  of  comic  error  and  verbose  irrel- 
evance. In  this  respect  he  is  worlds  removed  from 
Chaucer,  who  understands  social  differences  as  Shake- 
speare never  did,  and  to  whom,  therefore,  social  dif- 
ferences count  for  less.  How  wholly  real  and  human 
Dogberry  or  Verges,  Polonius  or  Lady  Capulet,  would 
have  been  in  Chaucer's  way  of  handling  !  The  Reeve, 
in  the  Canterbury  Tales,  is  a  man  of  the  people,  an 
old  man  and  a  talkative,  but  his  simple  philosophy 
of  life  has  a  breadth  and  seriousness  that  cannot 
be  matched  among  Shakespeare's  tradesfolk.  Yet, 
even  here,  some  allowance  must  be  made  for  the 
necessities  of  dramatic  presentation,  and  for  the  time- 
honoured  conventions  of  romantic  method.  The 
eternal  truths  of  human  nature  are  not  the  less 
true  because  they  are  illustrated  in  the  person  of  a 
king. 

In  the  great  Tragedies  Shakespeare  comes  at  last 
face  to  face  with  the  mystery  and  cruelty  of  human 
life.  He  had  never  been  satisfied  with  the  world  of 
romance,  guarded  like  a  dream  from  all  external 
violence;  and  his  plays,  when  they  are  arranged  in 
order,  exhibit  the  gradual  progress  of  the  invasion  of 
reality.  At  first  he  gently  and  humorously  suggests  the 
o 


194  SHAKESPEARE  [chat. 

contrast:  the  most  lifelike  characters  in  the  earlier  plays 
are  often  those  which  are  invented  and  added  by  him- 
self. Jaques  and  Touchstone,  Mercutio  and  the  Nurse, 
Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Malvolio,  represent  the  encroach- 
ments of  daily  life,  in  all  its  variety,  on  the  symmetry 
of  a  romantic  plot.  The  bastard  Faulconbridge  and 
Falstaff  are  the  spirit  of  criticism,  making  itself  at 
home  among  the  formalities  of  history.  But  in  the 
great  Tragedies  the  most  fully  conceived  characters 
are  no  longer  supernumeraries ;  they  are  the  heart  of 
the  play.  Hamlet  is  both  protagonist  and  critic.  The 
passion  of  Lear  and  Othello  and  Macbeth  is  too  real, 
too  intimately  known,  to  gain  or  lose  by  contrast:  the 
very  citadel  of  life  is  shaken  and  stormed  by  the 
onslaught  of  reality.  We  are  no  longer  saved  by  a 
mere  trick,  as  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice  or  Measure  for 
Measure ;  there  is  no  hope  of  a  reprieve ;  the  worst 
that  can  befall  has  happened,  and  we  are  stretched  on 
the  rack,  beyond  the  mercy  of  narcotics,  our  eyes  open 
and  our  senses  preternaturally  quickened,  to  endure 
till  the  end. 

There  was  a  foreboding  of  this  even  in  the  happiest 
of  the  early  plays,  a  gentle  undertone  of  melancholy, 
which  added  poignancy  to  the  happiness  by  reminding 
us  of  the  insecurity  of  mortal  things.  The  songs  sung 
by  the  Clown  in  Twelfth  Xight  are  an  exquisite  example : 

What  is  love  ?     'T  is  not  hereafter  ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  : 
What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure. 

Translated  into  the  language  of  tragedy,  these  lines 
tell  the  story  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  The  concluding 
song  — 

When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain,  — 


v.]  STORY    AND   CHARACTER  195 

has  some  of  the  forlorn  pathos  of  King  Lear.  The  rain 
that  raineth  every  day,  the  men  who  shut  their  gates 
against  knaves  and  thieves,  the  world  that  began  a 
great  while  ago,  are  like  disconnected  dim  memories, 
or  portents,  troubling  the  mind  of  a  child.  In  the 
Tragedies  they  come  out  of  the  twilight,  and  are  hard 
and  real  in  the  broad  light  of  day.  We  have  been 
accustomed  to  escape  from  these  miseries  by  waking, 
but  now  the  last  terror  confronts  us :  our  dream  has 
come  true. 

"When  Shakespeare  grappled  with  the  ultimate 
problems  of  life  he  had  the  help  of  no  talisman  or 
magic  script.  Doctrine,  theory,  metaphysic,  morals,  — 
how  should  these  help  a  man  at  the  last  encounter  ? 
Men  forge  themselves  these  weapons,  and  glory  in 
them,  only  to  find  them  an  encumbrance  at  the  hour 
of  need.  Shakespeare's  many  allusions  to  philosophy 
and  reason  show  how  little  he  trusted  them.  It  is  the 
foolish  Master  Slender  and  the  satirical  Benedick  who 
profess  that  their  love  is  governed  by  reason. 

The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd, 

says  Lysander,  in  ^-1  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  even 
while  he  is  the  helpless  plaything  of  the  fairies. 
Where  pain  and  sorrow  come,  reason  is  powerless, 
good  counsel  turns  to  passion,  and  philosophy  is  put  to 
shame : 

I  pray  thee,  peace  !     I  will  be  flesh  and  blood  ; 
For  there  was  never  yet  Philosopher 
That  could  endure  the  tooth-ache  patiently, 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  Gods, 
And  made  a  push  at  chance  and  sufferance. 

It  is  therefore  vain  to  seek  in  the  plays  for  a  philo- 
sophy or  doctrine  which  may  be  extracted  and  set  out 
in  brief.    Shakespeare's  philosophy  was  the  philosophy 


196  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

of  the  shepherd  Corin:  he  knew  that  the  more  one 
sickens,  the  worse  at  ease  he  is,  that  the  property  of 
rain  is  to  wet,  and  of  fire  to  burn.  King  Lear  when 
he  came  by  the  same  knowledge,  saw  through  the 
flatteries  and  deceits  on  which  he  had  been  fed  —  "  They 
told  me  I  was  everything ;  't  is  a  lie,  I  am  not  ague- 
proof."  All  doctrines  and  theories  concerning  the 
place  of  man  in  the  universe,  and  the  origin  of  evil, 
are  a  poor  and  partial  business  compared  with  that 
dazzling  vision  of  the  pitiful  estate  of  humanity  which 
is  revealed  by  Tragedy. 

The  vision,  as  it  was  seen  by  Shakespeare,  is  so 
solemn,  and  terrible,  and  convincing  in  its  reality,  that 
there  are  few,  perhaps,  among  his  readers  who  have 
not  averted  or  covered  their  eyes.  "  I  might  relate," 
says  Johnson,  "  that  I  was  many  years  ago  so  shocked 
by  Cordelia's  death,  that  I  know  not  whether  I  ever 
endured  to  read  again  the  last  scenes  of  the  play 
till  I  undertook  to  revise  them  as  an  editor."  For 
the  better  part  of  a  century  the  feelings  of  playgoers 
were  spared  by  alterations  in  the  acting  version.  With 
readers  of  the  play  other  protective  devices  have  found 
favour.  These  events,  they  have  been  willing  to 
believe,  are  a  fable  designed  by  Shakespeare  to 
illustrate  the  possible  awful  consequences  of  error  and 
thoughtlessness.  Such  things  never  happened ;  or,  if 
they  happened,  at  least  we  can  be  careful,  and  they 
never  need  happen  again.  So  the  reader  takes  re- 
fuge in  morality,  from  motives  not  of  pride,  but  of 
terror,  because  morality  is  within  man's  reach.  The 
breaking  of  a  bridge  from  faulty  construction  excites 
none  of  the  panic  fear  that  is  produced  by  an  earth- 
quake. 

But  here  we  have  to  do  with  an  earthquake,  and 
good  conduct  is  of  no  avail.     Morality  is  not  denied  ; 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  197 

it  is  overwhelmed  and  tossed  aside  by  the  inrush  of  the 
sea.  There  is  no  moral  lesson  to  be  read,  except 
accidentally,  in  any  of  Shakespeare's  tragedies.  They 
deal  with  greater  things  than  man ;  with  powers  and 
passions,  elemental  forces,  and  dark  abysses  of  suffer- 
ing ;  with  the  central  lire,  which  breaks  through  the 
thin  crust  of  civilisation,  and  makes  a  splendour  in  the 
sky  above  the  blackness  of  ruined  homes.  Because  he 
is  a  poet,  and  has  a  true  imagination,  Shakespeare 
knows  how  precarious  is  man's  tenure  of  the  soil, 
how  deceitful  are  his  quiet  orderly  habits  and  his 
prosaic  speech.  At  any  moment,  by  the  operation  of 
chance,  or  fate,  these  things  may  be  broken  up,  and 
the  world  given  over  once  more  to  the  forces  that 
struggled  in  chaos. 

It  is  not  true  to  say  that  in  these  tragedies  character 
is  destiny.  Othello  is  not  a  jealous  man ;  he  is  a 
man  carried  off  his  feet,  wave-drenched  and  blinded  by 
the  passion  of  love.  Macbeth  is  not  a  murderous 
politician ;  he  is  a  man  possessed.  Lear  no  doubt  has 
faults  ;  he  is  irritable  and  exacting,  and  the  price  that 
he  pays  for  these  weaknesses  of  old  age  is  that  they  let 
loose  hell.  Hamlet  is  sensitive,  thoughtful,  generous, 
impulsive, — "  a  pure,  noble,  and  most  moral  nature  " — 
yet  he  does  not  escape  the  extreme  penalty,  and  at  the 
bar  of  a  false  criticism  he  too  is  made  guilty  of  the 
catastrophe.  But  Shakespeare,  who  watched  his 
heroes,  awestruck,  as  he  saw  them  being  drawn  into 
the  gulf,  passed  no  such  judgment  on  them.  In  his 
view  of  it,  what  they  suffer  is  out  of  all  proportion  to 
what  they  do  and  are.  They  are  presented  with  a 
choice,  and  the  essence  of  the  tragedy  is  that  choice  is 
impossible.  Coriolanus  has  to  choose  between  the  pride 
of  his  country  and  the  closest  of  human  affections. 
Antony    stands    poised    between    love    and    empire. 


198  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

Macbeth  commits  a  foul  crime;  but  Shakespeare's 
tragic  stress  is  laid  on  the  hopelessness  of  the  dilemma 
that  follows,  and  his  great  pity  for  mortality  makes  the 
crime  a  lesser  thing.  Hamlet  fluctuates  between  the 
thought  which  leads  nowhither  and  the  action  which  is 
narrow  and  profoundly  unsatisfying.  Brutus,  like 
Coriolanus,  has  to  choose  between  his  highest  political 
hopes  and  the  private  ties  of  humanity.  Lear's  mis- 
doing is  forgotten  in  the  doom  that  falls  upon  him ; 
after  his  fit  of  jealous  anger  he  awakes  to  find  that  he 
has  no  further  choice,  and  is  driven  into  the  wilderness, 
a  scapegoat  for  mankind.  Othello  —  but  the  story  of 
Othello  exemplifies  a  further  reach  of  Shakespeare's 
fearful  irony —  Othello,  like  Hamlet,  suffers  for  his  very 
virtues,  and  the  noblest  qualities  of  his  mind  are  made 
the  instruments  of  his  crucifixion.  A  very  brief 
examination  of  these  two  plays  must  serve  in  place  of 
a  fuller  commentary. 

The  character  of  Hamlet  has  been  many  times  dis- 
cussed, and  the  opinions  expressed  may,  for  the  most 
part,  be  ranged  in  two  opposing  camps.  Some  critics 
have  held,  with  Goethe  and  Coleridge,  that  Hamlet  is 
Shakespeare's  study  of  the  unpractical  temperament ; 
the  portrait  of  a  dreamer.  Others,  denying  this,  have 
called  attention  to  his  extraordinary  courage  and 
promptitude  in  action.  He  follows  the  Ghost  without 
a  moment's  misgiving,  in  spite  of  his  companions' 
warnings.  He  kills  Polonius  out  of  hand,  and,  when 
he  finds  his  mistake,  brushes  it  aside  like  a  fly,  to 
return  to  the  main  business.  He  sends  Kosencrantz 
and  Guildenstern  to  their  death  with  cool  despatch, 
and  gives  them  a  hasty  epitaph  : 

'T  is  dangerous  when  the  haser  nature  comes 
Between  the  pass  and  fell  incensed  points 
Of  mighty  opposites. 


v.]  STORY  AND   CHARACTER  199 

In  the  sea-fight,  we  are  told,  he  was  the  first  to  board 
the  pirate  vessel.  And  nothing  in  speech  could  be 
more  pointed,  practical,  and  searching,  than  his  rapid 
cross-examination  of  Horatio  concerning  the  appearance 
of  the  Ghost.  Some  of  those  who  lay  stress  on  these 
things  go  further,  and  maintain  that  Hamlet  succeeds 
in  his  designs.  His  business  was  to  convince  himself 
of  the  King's  guilt,  and  to  make  open  demonstration  of 
it  before  all  Denmark.  When  these  things  are  done, 
he  stabs  the  King,  and  though  his  own  life  is  taken  by- 
treachery,  his  task  is  accomplished,  now  that  the  story 
of  the  murder  cannot  be  buried  in  his  grave. 

Yet  when  we  read  this  or  any  other  summary  of  the 
events  narrated,  we  feel  that  it  takes  us  far  from  the 
real  theme  of  the  play.  A  play  is  not  a  collection  of 
the  biographies  of  those  who  appear  in  it.  It  is  a 
grouping  of  certain  facts  and  events  round  a  single 
centre,  so  that  they  may  be  seen  at  a  glance.  In  this 
play  that  centre  is  the  mind  of  Hamlet.  We  see  with 
his  eyes,  and  think  his  thoughts.  When  once  we  are 
caught  in  the  rush  of  events  we  judge  him  no  more 
tli an  we  judge  ourselves.  Almost  all  that  has  ever 
been  said  of  his  character  is  true  ;  his  character  is  so 
live  and  versatile  that  it  presents  many  aspects.  What 
is  untrue  is  the  common  assumption  that  his  character 
is  a  chief  cause  of  the  dramatic  situation,  and  that 
Shakespeare  intends  us  to  judge  it  by  the  event — that 
the  play,  in  short,  is  a  Moral  Play,  like  one  of  Miss 
Edgeworth's  stories.  A  curiously  businesslike  vein  of 
criticism  runs  through  essays  and  remarks  on  Hamlet. 
There  is  much  talk  of  failure  and  success.  A  ghost  has 
told  him  to  avenge  the  murder  of  his  father ;  why  does 
he  not  do  his  obvious  duty,  and  do  it  at  once,  so  that 
everything  may  be'  put  in  order  ?  His  delay,  it  has 
sometimes  been  replied,  is  justified  by  his  desire  to  do 


200  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

his  duty  in  a  more  effective  and  workmanlike  fashion. 
The  melancholy  Prince  has  certainly  not  been  able  to 
infect  all  who  read  his  story  with  his  own  habit  of 
thought. 

If  the  government  of  the  State  of  Denmark  were 
one  of  the  issues  of  the  play,  there  would  be  a  better 
foothold  for  those  practical  moralists.  But  the  State 
of  Denmark  is  not  regarded  at  all,  except  as  a  topical 
and  picturesque  setting  for  the  main  interest.  The 
tragedy  is  a  tragedy  of  private  life,  made  conspicuous 
by  the  royal  station  of  the  chief  actors  in  it.  Before 
the  play  opens,  the  deeds  which  make  the  tragedy 
inevitable  have  already  been  done.  They  are  revealed 
to  us  only  as  they  are  revealed  to  Hamlet.  His 
mother's  faithlessness  has  given  him  cause  for  deep 
unrest  and  melancholy;  he  distrusts  human  nature 
and  longs  for  death.  Then  the  murder  is  made  known 
to  him.  He  sees  the  reality  beneath  the  plausible 
face  of  things,  and  thenceforth  the  Court  of  Elsinore 
becomes  for  him  a  theatre  where  all  the  powers  of  the 
universe  are  contending : 

0  all  you  host  of  Heaven  !    0  Earth  !    What  else  ? 
And  shall  I  couple  Hell  ?     0  fie :  hold,  my  heart ; 
And  you,  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old, 

But  bear  me  stiffly  up. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  his  friends  and  companions  think 
him  mad ;  he  has  seen  and  known  what  they  cannot 
see  and  know,  and  a  barrier  has  risen  between  him 
and  them : 

1  hold  it  fit  that  we  shake  hands  and  part ; 

You,  as  your  business  and  desires  shall  point  you; 
For  every  man  has  business  and  desire, 
Such  as  it  is  :  and  for  mine  own  poor  part, 
Look  you,  I  '11  go  pray. 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  201 

The  world  has  become  a  mockery  under  the  glare  of 
a  single  fact.  The  idea  of  his  mother's  perfidy  colours 
all  his  words  and  thoughts.  The  very  word  "  mother  " 
is  turned  into  a  name  of  evil  note :  "  0  wonderful 
son,  that  can  so  astonish  a  mother."  So  also  in  Troilus 
and  Cressida,  the  springs  of  humanity  are  poisoned  for 
Troilus  by  the  falseness  of  Cressida —  "  Think,  we  had 
mothers."  The  slower  imagination  of  Ulysses  cannot 
follow  the  speed  of  this  argument.  When  he  asks, 
"What  hath  she  done,  Prince,  that  can  soil  our 
mothers  ?  "  Troilus  replies,  with  all  the  condensed  irony 
of  Hamlet,  "Xothing  at  all,  unless  that  this  were 
she."  To  Hamlet,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  discovery, 
the  love  of  Ophelia  is  a  snare ;  yet  there  is  a  tragic 
touch  of  gentleness  in  his  parting  from  her.  The 
waters  of  destruction  are  out ;  she  may  escape  them, 
if  she  will.  She  is  innocent  as  yet,  why  should  she  be 
a  breeder  of  sinners  ?  Let  her  flee  from  the  wrath  to 
come  —  "Toa  nunnery,  go ! " 

It  is  observed  by  Coleridge  that  in  Hamlet  the 
equilibrium  between  the  real  and  the  imaginary 
worlds  is  disturbed.  Just  such  a  disturbance,  so  to 
call  it,  is  produced  by  any  great  shock  given  to  feel- 
ing, by  bereavement  or  crime  breaking  in  upon  the 
walled  serenity  of  daily  life  and  opening  vistas  into 
the  infinite  expanse,  where  only  the  imagination  can 
travel.  The  horizon  is  widened  far  beyond  the 
narrow  range  of  possible  action  ;  the  old  woes  of  the 
world  are  revived,  and  pass  like  shadows  before  the 
spellbound  watcher.  What  Hamlet  does  is  of  little 
importance;  nothing  that  he  can  do  would  avert  the 
tragedy,  or  lessen  his  own  agony.  It  is  not  by  what 
he  does  that  he  appeals  to  us,  but  by  what  he  sees  and 
feels.  Those  who  see  less  think  him  mad.  But  the 
King  who,  in  a  different  manner,  has  access  to  what 


202  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

is  passing  in  Hamlet's  mind,  knows  that  lie  is  danger- 
ously sane. 

The  case  of  Hamlet  well  illustrates  that  old- 
fashioned  psychology  which  divided  the  mind  of  man 
into  active  and  intellectual  powers.  Every  one  who  has 
ever  felt  the  stress  of  sudden  danger  must  be  familiar 
with  the  refusal  of  the  intellect  to  subordinate  itself 
wholly  to  the  will.  Even  a  drowning  man,  if  report 
be  true,  often  finds  his  mind  at  leisure,  as  though  he 
were  contemplating  his  own  struggles  from  a  distance. 
Action  and  contemplation  are  usually  separated  in  the 
drama,  for  the  sake  of  clearness,  and  are  embodied  in 
different  persons.  But  they  are  not  separated  in  life, 
nor  in  the  character  of  Hamlet.  His  actions  surprise 
himself.  His  reason,  being  Shakespeare's  reason,  is 
superb  in  its  outlook,  and  sits  unmoved  above  the 
strife.  Thus,  while  all  that  he  says  is  characteristic 
of  him,  some  of  it  is  whimsical,  impulsive,  individual, 
a  part  of  the  action  of  the  play,  while  others  of  his 
sayings  seem  to  express  the  mind  that  he  shares  with 
his  creator,  and  to  anticipate  the  reflections  of  an 
onlooker. 

It  is  not  from  the  weakness  of  indecision  that 
Hamlet  so  often  pays  tribute  to  the  forces  which  lie 
beyond  a  man's  control.  Of  what  he  does  rashly  he 
says: 

And  praised  be  rashness  for  it,  let  us  know 

Our  indiscretion  sometimes  serves  us  well, 

When  our  dear  plots  do  pall ;  and  that  should  teach  us, 

There  's  a  Divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 

Rough-hew  them  how  we  will. 

When  Horatio  tries  to  dissuade  him  from  the  fencing- 
match,  he  replies :  "  Not  a  whit ;  we  defy  augury  ; 
there  's  a  special  Providence  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow." 


v.]  STORY  AND   CHARACTER  203 

In  these  comments  he  speaks  the  mind  of  the 
dramatist.  A  profound  sense  of  fate  underlies  all 
Shakespeare's  tragedies.  Sometimes  he  permits  his 
characters,  Romeo  or  Hamlet,  to  give  utterance  to  it ; 
sometimes  he  prefers  a  subtler  and  more  ironical  method 
of  exposition.  Iago  and  Edmund,  alone  among  the  per- 
sons of  the  great  tragedies,  believe  in  the  sufficiency 
of  man  to  control  his  destinies.  "  Virtue  !  a  fig  !  "  says 
Iago  ;  "  't  is  in  ourselves  that  we  are  thus  or  thus."  It 
is  "  the  excellent  foppery  of  the  world,"  says  Edmund, 
that  "  we  make  guilty  of  our  disasters  the  sun,  the 
moon,  and  the  stars."  The  event  is  Shakespeare's  only 
reply  to  these  two  calculators.  His  criticism  is  con- 
tained in  the  event,  which  often  gives  a  thrill  of  new 
meaning  to  the  speeches  of  the  unconscious  agents. 
This  classical  irony,  as  it  is  called,  which  plays  with 
the  ignorance  of  man,  and  makes  him  a  prophet  in 
spite  of  himself,  is  an  essential  part  of  Shakespeare's 
tragic  method.  The  voice  of  the  prophecy  is  heard  in 
Romeo's  speech  to  the  Friar : 

Do  thou  but  close  our  hands  with  holy  words, 
Then  love-devouring  death  do  what  he  dare  ; 
It  is  enough  I  may  but  call  her  mine. 

It  is  heard  again  in  the  last  words  ever  spoken  by 
Juliet  to  her  lover  : 

Methinks  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  so  low, 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb  ; 
Either  my  eyesight  fails,  or  thou  look'st  pale. 

It  runs  all  through  Othello,  so  that  only  a  repeated 
reading  of  the  play  can  bring  out  its  full  meaning. 
The  joyful  greetings  of  Othello  and  Desdemona  in 
Cyprus  are  ominous  in  every  line.  "  If  it  were  now 
to  die,"  says  Othello,  "  't  were  now  to  be  most  happy." 
His  words  are  truer  than  he  knows. 


204  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

Without  this  sense  of  fate,  this  appreciation  of  the 
tides  that  bear  man  with  theni,  whether  he  swim  this 
way  or  that,  tragedy  would  be  impossible.  Othello  is 
in  many  ways  Shakespeare's  supreme  achievement  — 
in  this  among  others,  that  he  gives  tragic  dignity  to  a 
squalid  story  of  crime  by  heightening  the  characters 
and  making  all  the  events  inevitable.  The  moralists 
have  been  eager  to  lay  the  blame  of  these  events  on 
Othello,  or  Desdemona,  or  both  ;  but  the  whole  mean- 
ing of  the  play  would  vanish  if  they  were  successful. 
Shakespeare  is  too  strong  for  them  ;  they  cannot 
make  headway  against  his  command  of  our  sympa- 
thies. In  Othello  he  portrays  a  man  of  a  high  and 
passionate  nature,  ready  in  action,  generous  in  thought. 
Othello  has  lived  all  his  life  by  faith,  not  by  sight.  He 
cannot  observe  and  interpret  trifles  ;  his  way  has  been 
to  brush  them  aside  and  ignore  them.  He  is  im- 
patient of  all  that  is  subtle  and  devious,  as  if  it 
were  a  dishonour.  Jealousy  and  suspicion,  as  Desde- 
mona knows,  are  foreign  to  his  nature  ;  he  credits 
others  freely  with  all  his  own  noblest  qualities.  He 
hates  even  the  show  of  concealment;  when  Iago 
urges  him  to  retire,  to  escape  the  search-party  of 
Brabantio,  he  replies : 

Not  I :  I  must  be  found. 
My  parts,  my  title,  and  my  perfect  soul 
Shall  manifest  me  rightly. 

If  he  were  less  credulous,  more  cautious  and  alert  and 
observant,  he  would  be  a  lesser  man  than  he  is,  and  less 
worthy  of  our  love. 

His  unquestioning  faith  in  Desdemona  is  his  life  — 
what  if  his  faith  fail  him  ?  The  temptation  attacks 
him  on  his  blind  side.  He  knows  nothing  of  those 
dark  corners  of  the  mind  where  the  meaner  passions 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  205 

germinate.  The  man  who  comes  to  him  is  one  whom 
he  has  always  accepted  for  the  soul  of  honesty  and 
good  comradeship,  a  trusted  friend  and  familiar,  re- 
luctant to  speak,  quite  disinterested,  free  from  passion, 
highly  experienced  in  human  life,  all  honour  and 
devotion  and  delicacy,  —  for  so  Iago  appeared.  The 
game  of  the  adversary  was  won  when  Othello  first 
listened.  He  should  have  struck  Iago,  it  may  be  said, 
at  the  bare  hint,  as  he  smote  the  turban'd  Turk  in 
Aleppo.  Iago  was  well  aware  of  this  danger,  and  bent 
all  the  powers  of  his  mind  to  the  crisis.  He  gives  his 
victim  no  chance  for  indignation.  Any  one  who  would 
take  the  measure  of  Shakespeare's  almost  superhuman 
skill  when  he  rises  to  meet  a  difficulty  should  read  the 
Third  Act  of  Othello.  The  quickest  imagination  ever 
given  to  man  is  there  on  its  mettle,  and  racing.  There 
is  a  horrible  kind  of  reason  on  Othello's  side  when  he 
permits  Iago  to  speak.  He  knew  Iago,  or  so  he  be- 
lieved ;  Desdemona  was  a  fascinating  stranger.  Her 
unlikeness  to  himself  was  a  part  of  her  attraction;  his 
only  tie  to  her  was  the  tie  of  instinct  and  faith. 

Ah,  what  a  dusty  answer  gets  the  soul 
When  hot  for  certainties  in  this  our  life  ! 

Once  he  begins  to  struggle  with  thought,  he  is  in 
the  labyrinth  of  the  monster,  and  the  day  is  lost. 

If  Othello  is  simple  as  a  hero,  Desdemona  is  simple 
as  a  saint.  From  first  to  last,  while  she  is  uncon- 
sciously knotting  the  cords  around  her,  there  is  no 
trace,  in  any  speech  of  hers,  of  caution  or  self- 
regard.  She  is  utterly  trustful ;  she  gives  herself 
away,  as  the  saying  is,  a  hundred  times.  She  is  insis- 
tent, like  a  child  ;  but  she  never  defends  herself,  and 
never  argues.  To  the  end,  she  simply  cannot  believe 
that  things  are  beyond  recovery  by  the  power  of  love ; 


206  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

after  the  worst  scene  of  all  she  still  trusts  the  world, 
and  sleeps.  Those  misguided  and  unhappy  formalists 
who  put  her  in  the  witness-box  of  a  police-court,  and 
accuse  her  of  untruth,  should  be  forbidden  to  read 
Shakespeare.  She  was  heavenly  true.  Her  answer 
concerning  the  handkerchief  —  "It  is  not  lost:  but 
what  and  if  it  were?"  —  is  a  pathetic  and  childlike 
attempt  to  maintain  the  truth  of  her  relation  to  her 
husband.  How  can  she  know  that  she  is  at  the  bar 
before  a  hostile  judge,  and  that  her  answer  will  be  used 
against  her  ?  If  she  knew,  she  would  refuse  to  plead. 
Othello's  question  is  false  in  all  its  implications,  which 
appear  vaguely  and  terribly  in  his  distraught  manner. 
The  mischief  is  already  done  :  in  her  distress  and  be- 
wilderment she  clutches  at  words  which  express  one 
truth  at  least,  the  truth  that  she  has  done  him  no 
wrong.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  it  may  be  remembered,  with 
infinitely  less  at  stake,  used  almost  Desclemona's  form 
of  words  in  reply  to  the  question  whether  he  was  the 
author  of  the  Waverley  Novels. 

If  Desdemona  had  accepted  the  inhumanity  of  the 
position,  and,  on  general  grounds  of  principle,  had 
replied  by  a  statement  of  the  bare  fact,  she  might  be 
a  better  lawyer  in  her  own  cause,  but  she  would  forfeit 
her  angel's  estate.  So  also,  at  those  many  points  in 
the  play  where  a  cool  recognition  of  her  danger  and  a 
determination  to  be  explicit  might  have  saved  her, 
we  cannot  wish  that  she  should  so  save  herself.  She 
is  tactless,  it  is  said,  in  her  solicitations  on  behalf  of 
Cassio  ;  but  it  is  the  tactlessness  of  unfaltering  faith. 
When  anger  and  suspicion  intrude  upon  her  paradise 
she  cannot  deal  with  them  reasonably,  as  those  can  who 
expect  them.  She  is  a  child  to  chiding,  as  she  says 
to  Emilia :  and  a  child  that  shows  tact  and  calmness 
in  managing  its  elders  is  not  loved  the  better  for  it. 


v.]  STORY   AND   CHARACTER  207 

The  simplicity  and  purity  of  these  two  characters 
give  to  Iago  the  material  of  his  craft.  The  sovereign 
skill  of  that  craft,  and  his  artist's  delight  in  it,  have 
procured  him  worship,  so  that  he  has  been  enthroned 
as  a  kind  of  evil  God.  But  if  no  such  man  ever 
existed,  yet  the  elements  of  which  he  is  composed  are 
easy  to  find  in  ordinary  life.  All  the  cold  passions  of 
humanity  are  compacted  in  his  heart.  His  main  motives 
are  motives  of  every  day  —  pride  in  self,  contempt  for 
others,  delight  in  irresponsible  power.  In  any  human 
society  it  may  be  noted  how  innocence  and  freedom 
win  favour  by  their  very  ease,  and  it  may  be  noted 
also  how  they  arouse  a  certain  sense  of  hostility  in 
more  difficult  and  grudging  spirits.  Iago  is  not  an 
empty  dream.  But  if  goodness  is  sometimes  stupid,  so 
is  wickedness.  Iago  can  calculate,  but  he  takes  no 
account  of  the  self-forgetful  passions.  He  is  surprised 
by  Othello's  great  burst  of  pity ;  when  Desdemona 
kneels  at  his  feet  and  implores  his  help  to  regain  her 
husband's  affection,  his  words  seem  to  betoken  some 
embarrassment,  and  he  makes  haste  to  end  the  inter- 
view. He  does  not  understand  any  one  with  whom 
he  has  to  deal ;  not  Othello,  nor  Desdemona,  nor 
Cassio,  nor  his  own  wife  Emilia,  and  this  last  mis- 
understanding involves  him  in  the  ruin  of  his  plot. 

Shakespeare  flinches  at  nothing:  he  makes  Desde- 
mona kneel  to  Iago,  and  sends  her  to  her  death 
without  the  enlightenment  that  comes  at  last  to 
Othello  when  he  discovers  his  hideous  error.  She 
could  bear  more  than  Othello,  for  her  love  had  not 
wavered.  There  is  a  strange  sense  of  triumph  even 
in  this  appalling  close.  Shakespeare's  treatment  of 
the  mystery  does  not  much  vary  from  tragedy  to 
tragedy.  In  Othello  the  chances  were  all  against  the 
extreme  issue ;  at  a  dozen  points  in  the  story  a  slip 


208  SHAKESPEARE  [chap.  v. 

or  an  accident  would  have  brought  Iago's  fabric  about 
his  ears.  Yet  out  of  these  materials,  Shakespeare 
seems  to  say,  this  result  may  be  wrought;  and  the 
Heavens  will  permit  it.  He  points  to  no  conclusion, 
unless  it  be  this,  that  the  greatest  and  loveliest 
virtues,  surpassing  the  common  measure,  are  not  to 
be  had  for  nothing.  They  must  suffer  for  their  great- 
ness. In  life  they  suffer  silently,  without  fame.  In 
Shakespeare's  art  they  are  made  known  to  us,  and 
wear  their  crown.  Desdemona  and  Othello  are  both 
made  perfect  in  the  act  of  death,  so  that  the  idea 
of  murder  is  lost  and  forgotten  in  the  sense  of 
sacrifice. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    LAST    PHASE 

In  the  plays  of  Shakespeare's  closing  years  there  is  a 
pervading  sense  of  quiet  and  happiness  which  seems 
to  bear  witness  to  a  change  in  the  mind  of  their 
author.  In  these  latest  plays —  Cym  beline,  The  Winter's 
Tale,  Tlie  Tempest  —  the  subjects  chosen  are  tragic  in 
their  nature,  but  they  are  shaped  to  a  fortunate 
result.  Imogen  and  Hermione  are  deeply  wronged, 
like  Desdemona;  Prospero,  like  Lear,  is  driven  from 
his  inheritance  ;  yet  the  forces  of  destruction  do  not 
prevail,  and  the  end  brings  forgiveness  and  reunion. 
There  is  no  reversion  to  the  manner  of  the  Comedies ; 
this  new-found  happiness  is  a  happiness  wrung  from 
experience,  and,  unlike  the  old  high-spirited  gaiety, 
it  does  not  exult  over  the  evil-doer.  An  all-embracing 
tolerance  and  kindliness  inspires  these  last  plays. 
The  amiable  rascal,  for  whom  there  was  no  place  in 
the  Tragedies,  reappears.  The  outlook  on  life  is 
widened ;  and  the  children  —  Perdita  and  Florizel, 
Miranda  and  Ferdinand,  Guiderius  and  Arviragns  — 
are  permitted  to  make  amends  for  the  faults  and 
misfortunes  of  their  parents.  There  is  still  tragic 
material  in  plenty,  and  there  are  some  high-wrought 
tragic  scenes ;  but  the  tension  is  soon  relaxed ;  in  two 
of  the  plays  the  construction  is  loose  and  rambling ; 
in  all  three  there  is  a  free  rein  given  to  humour  and 
fantasy.  It  is  as  if  Shakespeare  were  weary  of  the 
p  209 


210  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

business  of  the  drama,  and  cared  only  to  indulge  his 
whim.  He  was  at  the  top  of  his  profession,  and  was 
no  longer  forced  to  adapt  himself  to  the  narrower 
conventions  of  the  stage.  He  might  write  what  he 
liked,  and  he  made  full  use  of  his  hard-earned  liberty. 

The  sense  of  relief  which  comes  with  these  last 
plays,  after  the  prolonged  and  heightened  anguish  of 
the  Tragedies,  seems  to  suggest  the  state  of  con- 
valescence, when  the  mind  wanders  among  happy 
memories,  and  is  restored  to  a  delight  in  the  sim- 
plest pleasures.  The  scene  is  shifted,  for  escape  from 
the  old  jealousies  of  the  Court,  to  an  enchanted  island, 
or  to  the  mountains  of  Wales,  or  to  the  sheep-walks  of 
Bohemia,  where  the  life  of  the  inhabitants  is  a  peaceful 
round  of  daily  duties  and  rural  pieties.  The  very 
structure  of  the  plays  has  the  inconsequence  of  reverie : 
even  The  Tempest,  while  it  observes  the  mechanical 
unities,  escapes  from  their  tyranny  by  an  appeal  to 
supernatural  agencies,  which  in  a  single  day  can  do 
the  work  of  years.  All  these  characteristics  of  matter 
and  form  point  to  the  same  conclusion,  that  the  dark- 
ness and  burden  of  tragic  suffering  gave  place,  in  the 
latest  works  that  Shakespeare  wrote  for  the  stage,  to 
daylight  and  ease. 

The  Tragedies  must  be  reckoned  his  greatest 
achievement,  so  that  it  may  sound  paradoxical  to 
speak  of  the  sudden  change  from  Tragedy  to  Romance 
as  if  it  betokened  a  recovery  from  disease.  Yet  no 
man  can  explore  the  possibilities  of  suffering,  as 
Shakespeare  did,  to  the  dark  end,  without  peril  to  his 
own  soul.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation  keeps 
most  men  from  adventuring  near  to  the  edge  of  the 
abyss.  The  inevitable  pains  of  life  they  will  nerve 
themselves  to  endure,  but  they  are  careful  not  to 
multiply    them   by  imagination,   lest  their  strength 


vi.]  THE   LAST   PHASE  211 

should  fail.  For  many  years  Shakespeare  took  upon 
himself  the  burden  of  the  human  race,  and  struggled 
in  thought  under  the  oppression  of  sorrows  not  his 
own.  That  he  turned  at  last  to  happier  scenes,  and 
wrote  the  Romances,  is  evidence,  it  may  be  said,  that 
his  grip  on  the  hard  facts  of  life  was  loosened  by 
fatigue,  and  that  he  sought  refreshment  in  irrespon- 
sible play.  And  this  perhaps  is  true ;  but  the  marvel 
is  that  he  ever  won  his  way  back  into  a  world  where 
play  is  possible.  He  was  not  unscathed  by  the  ordeal : 
the  smell  of  the  fire  had  passed  on  him.  There  are 
many  fearful  passages  in  the  Tragedies,  where  the 
reader  holds  his  breath,  from  sympathy  with  Shake- 
speare's characters  and  apprehension  of  the  madness 
that  threatens  them.  But  there  is  a  far  worse  terror 
when  it  begins  to  appear  that  Shakespeare  himself  is 
not  aloof  and  secure ;  that  his  foothold  is  precarious 
on  the  edge  that  overlooks  the  gulf.  In  King  Lear 
and  Timon  of  Athens  and  Hamlet  there  is  an  unmis- 
takable note  of  disgust  and  disaffection  towards  the 
mere  fact  of  sex ;  and  the  same  feeling  expresses  itself 
faintly,  with  much  distress  and  uncertainty,  in  Measure 
for  Measure.  It  is  true  that  the  dramatic  cause  of  this 
disaffection  is  supplied  in  each  case ;  Lear's  daughters 
have  turned  against  him,  Timon's  curses  are  ostensibly 
provoked  by  special  instances  of  ingratitude  and  cruelty 
and  lust,  Hamlet's  mind  is  preoccupied  with  the  horror 
of  his  mother's  sin.  But  the  passion  goes  far  beyond  its 
occasion,  to  condemn,  or  to  question,  all  the  business 
and  desire  of  the  race  of  man.  .  The  voice  that  we 
have  learned  to  recognise  as  Shakespeare's  is  heard,  in 
its  most  moving  accents,  blaspheming  the  very  founda- 
tions of  life  and  sanity.  Those  who  cannot  find  in  the 
Sonnets  any  trace  of  personal  feeling  may  quite  well 
maintain  that  here  too  the  passion  is  simulated ;  but 


212  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

the  great  majority  of  readers,  who,  holding  no  theories, 
are  yet  vaguely  aware  of  Shakespeare's  presence  and 
control,  will  recognise  what  is  meant  by  this  worst 
touch  of  fear.  Some,  recognising  it,  have  conceived  of 
Shakespeare  as  a  man  whose  mind  was  unbalanced 
by  an  excess  of  emotional  sensibility.  The  excess 
may  be  allowed ;  it  is  the  best  part  of  his  wealth ;  but 
it  must  not  be  taken  to  imply  defect  and  poverty 
elsewhere.  We  do  not  and  cannot  know  enough  of 
his  life  even  to  guess  at  the  experiences  which  may 
have  left  their  mark  on  the  darkest  of  his  writings. 
We  do  know  that  only  a  man  of  extraordinary  strength 
and  serenity  of  temper  could  have  emerged  from  these 
experiences  unspoilt.  Many  a  life  has  been  wrecked  on 
a  tenth  part  of  the  accumulated  suffering  which  finds  a 
voice  in  the  Tragedies.  The  Romances  are  our  warrant 
that  Shakespeare  regained  a  perfect  calm  of  mind.  If 
Timon  of  Athens  had  been  his  last  play,  who  could  feel 
any  assurance  that  he  died  at  peace  with  the  world  ? 

The  retirement  to  Stratford  cut  him  off  from  the 
society  of  writers  of  books ;  and,  incidentally,  cut  us  off 
from  our  last  and  best  opportunity  of  overhearing  his 
talk.  If  he  had  continued  in  London,  and  had  gathered 
a  school  of  younger  men  around  him,  we  should  have 
heard  something  of  him  from  his  disciples.  He  pre- 
ferred the  more  homely  circle  of  Stratford ;  and  he 
founded  no  school.  Doubtless,  when  he  was  giving  up 
business,  he  made  over  some  of  his  unfinished  work 
to  younger  men,  with  liberty  to  piece  it  out.  It  has 
been  confidently  asserted  that  he  collaborated  with 
John  Fletcher  both  in  Henry  VIII.,  which  appears  in 
the  Folio,  and  in  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  which  was 
published  as  Fletcher's  work.  For  this  partnership 
of  Shakespeare's  the  evidence,  though  it  consists 
wholly  of  a  comparison  of  styles,   is  stronger  than 


vi.]  THE   LAST   PHASE  213 

for  any  other ;  and  Fletcher  was  as  apt  a  pupil 
as  could  have  been  found  for  so  impossible  a 
master.  But  the  master  must  have  known  that 
he  had  nothing  to  teach  which  could  be  effectively 
learned.  Schools  are  founded  by  believers  in 
method ;  he  trusted  solely  to  the  grace  of  imagina- 
tion, and  indulged  himself,  year  by  year,  in  wilder 
and  more  daring  experiments.  His  work,  when  it  is 
not  inspired,  is  not  even  remarkable.  Artists  of  his 
kind,  if  they  are  so  unfortunate  as  to  find  a  following, 
attract  only  superstitious  and  week-kneed  aspirants, 
who  cannot  understand  that  every  real  thing  is 
liker  to  every  other  real  thing  than  to  the  closest 
and  most  reverent  imitation  of  itself.  Shakespeare 
baffled  all  imitators  by  his  speed  and  inexhaustible 
variety.  His  early  comedies  might  perhaps  be 
brought  within  the  compass  of  a  formula,  though  the 
volatile  essence  which  is  their  soul  would  escape  in  the 
process.  His  historical  plays  observe  no  certain  laws, 
either  of  history  or  of  the  drama.  The  attempt  to 
find  a  theoretic  basis  for  the  great  tragedies  has  never 
been  attended  with  the  smallest  success :  man  is 
greater  than  that  mode  of  his  thought  which  is 
called  philosophy,  as  the  whole  is  greater  than  a 
part ;  and  the  Shakespearean  drama  is  an  instrument 
of  expression  incomparably  fuller  and  richer  than 
the  tongs  and  the  bones  of  moralists  and  meta- 
physicians. In  his  last  plays,  so  far  from  relaxing 
the  energy  of  his  invention,  he  outwent  himself  in 
fertility  and  reach.  These  are  the  plays  which  are 
described  in  Johnson's  eulogy  : 

Each  change  of  many-coloured  life  he  drew, 
Exhausted  worlds,  and  then  imagined  new  ; 
Existence  saw  him  spurn  her  bounded  reign, 
And  panting  Time  toiled  after  him  in  vain. 


214  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

The  brave  new  world  of  his  latest  invention  is  rich  in 
picture  and  memory  —  shipwreck,  battle,  the  simple 
funeral  of  Fidele,  the  strange  adventures  of  Autolycus, 
the  dances  of  shepherdesses  on  the  rustic  lawn,  and  of 
fairies  on  the  yellow  sands  —  but  the  boldest  stroke  of 
his  mature  power  is  seen  in  his  creation  of  a  new 
mythology.  In  place  of  the  witches  and  good  people 
of  the  popular  belief,  who  had  already  played  a  part 
in  his  drama,  he  creates  spirits  of  the  earth  and  of  the 
air,  the  freckled  hag-born  whelp  Caliban,  the  beautiful 
and  petulant  Ariel,  both  of  them  subdued  to  the 
purposes  of  man,  who  is  thus  made  master  of  his  fate 
and  of  the  world.  The  brain  that  devised  The  Tempest 
was  not  unstrung  by  fatigue. 

The  style  of  these  last  plays  is  a  further  develop- 
ment of  the  style  of  the  Tragedies.  The  thought  is 
often  more  packed  and  hurried,  the  expression  more 
various  and  fluent,  at  the  expense  of  full  logical  order- 
ing. The  change  which  came  over  Shakespeare's 
later  work  is  that  which  Dryden,  at  an  advanced 
age,  perceived  in  himself.  "  What  judgment  I  had," 
he  says,  in  the  Preface  to  the  Fables,  "  increases  rather 
than  diminishes ;  and  thoughts,  such  as  they  are, 
come  crowding  in  so  fast  upon  me,  that  my  only 
difficulty  is  to  choose  or  to  reject,  to  run  them  into 
verse,  or  to  give  them  the  other  harmony  of  prose." 
The  bombasted  magniloquence  of  the  early  rhetorical 
style  has  now  disappeared.  The  very  syntax  is  the 
syntax  of  thought  rather  than  of  language ;  con- 
structions are  mixed,  grammatical  links  are  dropped, 
the  meaning  of  many  sentences  is  compressed  into  one, 
hints  and  impressions  count  for  as  much  as  full-blown 
propositions.  An  illustration  of  this  late  style  may  be 
taken  from  the  scene  in  The  Tempest,  where  Antonio, 
the    usurping    Duke    of    Milan,    tries    to    persuade 


vi.]  THE   LAST   PHASE  215 

Sebastian  to  murder  his  brother  Alonso,  and  to  seize 
upon  the  kingdom  of  Naples.  Ferdinand,  the  heir  to 
the  kingdom,  is  believed  to  have  perished  in  the  ship- 
wreck, and  Antonio  points  to  the  sleeping  king : 

Ant.   Who 's  the  next  heir  of  Naples  ? 

Seb.   Claribel. 

Ant.   She  that  is  Queen  of  Tunis  ;  she  that  dwells 
Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life  ;  she  that  from  Naples 
Can  have  no  note,  unless  the  Sun  were  post, 
(The  man  i'  th'  moon  's  too  slow)  till  new-born  chins 
Be  rough  and  razorable  ;  she  that  from  whom 
We  all  were  sea-swallow'd,  though  some  cast  again, 
And  by  that  destiny  to  perform  an  act 
Whereof  what 's  past  is  prologue  ;  what  to  come 
In  yours  and  my  discharge. 

Here  is  a  very  huddle  of  thoughts,  tumbled  out  as 
they  present  themselves,  eagerly  and  fast.  This 
crowded  utterance  is  not  proper  to  any  one  character ; 
Leontes  in  his  jealous  speculations,  Imogen  in  her 
questions  addressed  to  Pisanio,  Prospero  in  his  narra- 
tive to  Miranda,  all  speak  in  the  same  fashion, 
prompted  by  the  same  scurry  of  thought.  It  would 
be  right  to  conclude,  from  the  mere  reading,  that 
there  was  no  blot  in  the  papers  to  which  these  speeches 
were  committed. 

This  later  style  of  Shakespeare,  as  it  is  seen  in  the 
Tragedies  and  Romances,  is  perhaps  the  most  wonder- 
ful thing  in  English  literature.  From  the  first  he  was 
a  lover  of  language,  bandying  words  like  tennis-balls, 
adorning  his  theme  "  with  many  holiday  and  lady 
terms,"  proving  that  a  sentence  is  but  a  cheveril  glove 
to  a  good  wit,  so  quickly  the  wrong  side  may  be  turned 
outward.  He  had  a  mint  of  phrases  in  his  brain,  an 
exchequer  of  words ;  he  had  fed  of  the  dainties  that 
are  bred  in  a  book  ;  his  speech  was  a  very  fantastical 


216  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

banquet.  This  early  practice  gave  him  an  assured 
mastery,  so  that  when  his  thoughts  multiplied  and 
strengthened,  he  was  able  to  express  himself.  There 
has  never  been  a  writer  who  came  nearer  to  giving 
adequate  verbal  expression  to  the  subtlest  turns  of 
consciousness,  the  flitting  shadows  and  half-conceived 
ideas  and  purposes  which  count  for  so  much  in  the  life 
of  the  mind — which  determine  action,  indeed,  although 
they  could  not  be  rationally  formulated  by  a  lawyer 
as  a  plea  for  action.  His  language,  it  is  true,  is  often 
at  its  simplest  when  the  thought  is  most  active.  So 
in  Macbeth's  question : 

But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce  Amen  ? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  Amen 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

So  in  Othello's  reply  to  Desdemona's  plea  for  respite  — 
"being  done,  there  is  no  pause"  —  a  reply  which, 
better  than  a  long  discourse,  explains  that  the  crisis 
in  Othello's  mind  is  over,  and  the  deed  itself  is  a  mere 
consequence  of  that  agoiry.  But  where  the  situation 
allows  of  it,  Shakespeare's  wealth  of  expression  is  be- 
wildering in  its  flow  and  variety.  Ideas,  metaphors, 
analogies,  illustrations,  crowd  into  his  mind,  and  the 
pen  cannot  drive  fast  enough  to  give  them  full  expres- 
sion. He  tumbles  his  jewels  out  in  a  heap,  and  does 
not  spend  labour  on  giving  to  any  of  them  an  elaborate 
setting.  "  His  mind  and  hand  went  together,"  but  his 
mind  went  the  faster. 

His  was  the  age  before  the  Academies,  when  the 
processes  of  popular  and  literary  education  had  not 
yet  multiplied  definitions  and  hardened  usages.  There 
is  truth  in  the  common  saying  that  the  English 
lauguage  was  still  fluid  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 
No  man,  even  if  he  had  the  mind  to  do  it,  would  now 


vi.]  THE   LAST   PHASE  217 

dare  to  write  like  Shakespeare.  The  body  of  pre- 
cedent has  been  enormously  increased ;  science  and 
controversy  have  been  busy,  year  after  year,  limiting 
and  distinguishing  the  meanings  of  words,  for  the  sake 
of  exactness  and  uniformity.  Hence,  although  even 
the  most  original  of  writers  cannot  very  seriously 
modify  the  language  that  he  uses,  Shakespeare  enjoyed 
a  freedom  of  invention  unknown  to  his  successors. 
He  coins  words  lavishly,  and  assigns  new  meanings  to 
old  forms.  He  knows  nothing  of  the  so-called  parts  of 
speech ;  where  he  lacks  a  verb  he  will  make  it  from 
the  first  noun  or  adjective  that  comes  to  hand.  The 
more  or  less  precise  significations  which  are  now 
attached  to  certain  Latin  prefixes  and  suffixes  are  all 
disordered  and  mixed  in  his  use  of  them.  He  violates 
almost  every  grammatical  rule,  and,  in  accordance 
with  what  is,  after  all,  the  best  English  usage,  neglects 
formal  concord  in  the  interests  of  a  vaguer  truth  of 
impression.  The  number  and  person  of  a  verb,  in  his 
English,  are  regulated  by  the  meaning  of  the  subject, 
not  by  its  grammatical  form.  His  language  is  often 
too  far-fetched,  and  owes  too  much  to  books,  to  be 
called  colloquial ;  but  the  syntax  and  framework  of  his 
sentences  have  all  the  freedom  of  the  most  impulsive 
speech. 

A  few  examples,  the  first  that  present  themselves, 
may  serve  to  illustrate  these  general  remarks.  A 
sufficient  treatise  on  Shakespeare's  English  is  still  to 
seek,  and  the  New  English  Dictionary,  which  has  done 
more  than  any  other  single  work  to  supply  the  need, 
is  not  yet  complete.  Moreover,  although  the  first 
recorded  occurrence  of  a  word  or  meaning  often  be- 
longs to  Shakespeare,  it  is  impossible,  in  any  given 
case,  to  prove  that  he  was  the  first  inventor.  But  the 
cumulative  evidence  for  his  inventive  habit  is  irre- 


218  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

sistible.     He  calls  a  nun  a  "  cloystress,"  and  a  party 
of  seekers  "  questrists  "  or  "questants."     Terminations 
are    fitted    as    they   come ;    "  ruby,"    "  rubied,"   and 
"  rubious "  are  all  used  adjectively  ;   "  irregular  "  is 
varied  by  "  irregulous,"  "  temporal "  by  "  temporary," 
"distinction"     by     "  distinguishment,"     and     "con- 
spirator "  by  "  conspirer."     "  Stricture,"  "  prompture," 
and  "  expressure  "  are  used  severally  to  mean  what 
would  now  be  conveyed  by  "  strictness,"  "  prompting," 
and  "  expression."     He  strikes  out,  at  a  sudden  need, 
words  like  "  opposeless "  and  "  vastidity,"  "  upright- 
eously  "  and  "  inaiclible."     He  coins  diminutives  as  he 
needs  them,  "  smilets"  and  "crownets."     He  borrows 
words  from  the  French,  like  "esperance"  and"oeillade" 
(boldly  Anglicised  as  "  eliad  "),  and  from  the  German, 
as   where   he   speaks   of   Ophelia's   virgin   "  crants." 
Perhaps    this    last   word   was    unintelligible    to   the 
audience  ;  it  occurs  in  the  Quarto,  but  is  altered  in 
the  Folio  to  "rites."     There  are  no  earlier  recorded 
occurrences  of  "  allottery  "  (in  the  sense  of  "  portion  "), 
"  forgetive,"  "  confixed,"  "  eventful,"  and  very  many 
other  words.     The  meaning  that  he  assigns  to  words 
seems  often  to  be  a  meaning  of  his  own  devising. 
"  Unquestionable  "  he  uses  in  the  sense  of  averse  to 
conversation.    In  Measure  for  Measure,  Angelo,  affianced 
to  Mariana,  is  spoken  of  as  "  her  combinate  husband." 
The   Duke,  when   he   excuses   his  failure  to  appear 
against  Angelo,  says  that  he  is  "  combined  by  a  sacred 
vow,"    and    so    must   needs    be    absent.      Sometimes 
Shakespeare    misuses    a    word    from    mistaking    its 
etymology  :  he  uses  "  f edary  "  or   "  federary  "  in  the 
sense   of    accomplice,   not   of   vassal.     He   obtains   a 
wonderful  expressiveness  even  from  his  wildest  licence. 
A  good  many  instances  might  be  gathered  from  his 
work  to  illustrate  his  curiously  impressionist  use  of 


vi.]  THE   LAST  PHASE  219 

language ;  he  tested  a  word,  it  seems,  by  the  ear,  and, 
if  it  sounded  right,  accepted  it  without  further  scrutiny. 
Iago,  in  his  advice  to  Roderigo,  speaking  of  Desde- 
mona's  affection  to  the  Moor,  says  :  "  It  was  a  violent 
commencement  in  her,  and  thou  shalt  see  an  answer- 
able sequestration ;  put  but  money  in  thy  purse." 
What  does  he  mean  by  "  sequestration''  ?  No  doubt 
the  main  part  of  his  meaning  is  the  natural  and  right 
meaning  of  separation,  divorce.  But  the  sentence  is 
antithetically  constructed,  and  "sequestration"  serves 
well  enough,  from  its  accidental  suggestion  of 
"  sequence  "  and  "  sequel,"  to  set  over  against  "  com- 
mencement." This  is  not  a  scholar's  use  of  language; 
but  it  has  a  magic  of  its  own. 

A  like  brilliant  effect  is  often  obtained  by  the 
coinage  of  verbs.  What  could  be  more  admirable 
than  Cleopatra's  description  of  Octavia  ? 

Your  wife  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes, 
And  still  conclusion,  shall  acquire  no  honour 
Demuring  upon  me. 

Or,  for  a  last  instance  of  the  triumph  of  wilfulness,  it 
will  suffice  to  take  any  of  the  familiar  nouns  which 
are  used  as  verbs  by  Shakespeare.  He  twice  uses 
"  woman  "  as  a  verb,  but  not  twice  in  the  same  sense. 
Cassio,  in  Othello,  orders  Bianca  to  leave  him  : 

I  do  attend  here  on  the  General, 

And  think  it  no  addition,  nor  my  wish, 

To  have  him  see  me  woman'd. 

The  Countess,  in  All's  Well,  says: 

I  have  felt  so  many  quirks  of  joy  and  grief, 
That  the  first  face  of  neither,  on  the  start, 
Can  woman  me  unto  't. 


220  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

The  word  "child"  is  used  with  the  same  freedom; 
Lear  is  sympathetically  described  by  Edgar  —  "  he 
childed  as  I  father'd  "  ;  the  autumn  is  "  the  childing 
autumn "  ;  Polixenes  in  The  Winter's  Tale  tells   how 

his  son, 

With  his  varying  childness  cures  in  me 
Thoughts  that  would  thick  my  blood. 

The  build  of  Shakespeare's  earlier  verse,  with  its 
easy  flow  of  rhythm  and  observance  of  the  pause  at  the 
end  of  the  line,  favoured  clear  syntax.  Yet  there  are 
instances  in  the  earlier  plays  of  that  confused  and 
condensed  manner  which  obscures  a  simple  thought  by 
overlaying  it  with  the  metaphors  that  it  happens  to 
suggest.  This  acceptance  of  all  that  passes  through 
the  mind  became  more  and  more  characteristic  of 
Shakespeare's  style  :  he  avoids  it,  at  his  best,  not  by 
careful  revision,  and  rejection  on  a  second  reading,  but 
by  heating  his  imagination  till  it  refuses  what  cannot 
be  perfectly  assimilated  on  the  instant.  Where  he  is 
deliberate  and  languid,  he  is  often  obscure.  This  is 
how  the  King,  in  Love's  Labour 's  Lost,  expresses  the 
not  very  complex  idea  that  decisions  are  often  forced 
upon  us  by  the  lapse  of  time : 

The  extreme  parts  of  time  extremely  forms 
All  causes  to  the  purpose  of  his  speed, 
And  often  at  his  very  loose  decides 
That  which  long  process  could  not  arbitrate. 

Gratiano,  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  is  entangled  in 
his  effort  to  say  that  silence  is  often  mistaken  for 
wisdom : 

O  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these 

That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise, 

Eor  saying  nothing  ;  when,  I  am  very  sure, 

If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those  ears, 

"Which  hearing  them  would  call  their  brothers  fools. 


vi.]  THE   LAST  PHASE  221 

Even  worshippers  of  Shakespeare  will  agree  that 
this  is  no  way  to  write  English.  In  the  later  plays 
elliptical  syntax  becomes  commoner,  though  the  mean- 
ing is  usually  tighter  packed.  When  Polixenes,  in 
TJie  Winter's  Tale,  is  pressed  by  Leontes  to  prolong  his 
visit,  he  excuses  himself  in  this  fashion  : 

I  am  question'd  by  my  fears,  of  what  may  chance, 
Or  breed  upon  our  absence,  that  may  blow 
No  sneaping  winds  at  home,  to  make  us  say, 
This  is  put  forth  too  truly. 

No  grammatical  analysis  of  this  sentence  is  possible, 
yet  its  meaning  is  hardly  doubtful.  The  fears  of  the 
first  line  are  made  to  imply  hopes  in  the  second,  and, 
in  the  fourth,  are  alluded  to  in  the  singular  number  as 
a  feeling  of  apprehension.  Passages  like  this  are 
legion,  and  are,  for  the  most  part,  easily  understood  at 
a  first  glance.  He  who  runs  may  read,  when  he  who 
stands  and  ponders  is  strangled  by  the  grammatical 
intricacies.  In  their  slow-witted  efforts  to  regularise 
the  text  of  Shakespeare,  the  grammarians  have 
steadily  corrupted  it,  even  while  they  have  heaped 
scorn  on  the  heads  of  the  first  editors  for  presenting 
them  with  what  Shakespeare  wrote. 

If  there  is  one  mark  which  more  than  another  dis- 
tinguishes Shakespeare's  mature  style  from  all  other 
writing  whatsover,  it  is  his  royal  wealth  of  metaphor. 
He  always  loved  the  high  figurative  fashion,  and  in  his 
early  writing  he  was  sometimes  patient  with  a  figure, 
elaborating  it  with  care,  to  make  it  go  upon  all  fours. 
So  Thurio,  in  TJie  Two  Gentlemen,  explains  to  Proteus, 
by  a  simile  taken  from  the  spinning  of  flax,  how 
Silvia's  love  may  be  transferred  from  Valentine  to 
himself : 

Therefore,  as  you  unwind  her  love  from  him, 
Lest  it  should  ravel,  and  be  good  to  none, 


222  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

You  must  provide  to  bottom  it  on  me  : 
Which  must  be  done  by  praising  me  as  much 
As  you  in  worth  dispraise  Sir  Valentine. 

When  a  figure  is  thus  carefully  worked  out  in  detail, 
it  becomes  cold  and  conceited :  things  are  not  so  like 
one  another  as  to  be  fitted  in  all  their  parts,  and  the 
process  of  fitting  them  takes  the  attention  away  from 
the  fact  to  be  illustrated,  which  would  remain  signifi- 
cant, even  if  the  world  furnished  no  comparison  for  it. 
Something  of  this  chill  mars  the  speeches  of  Arthur,  in 
King  John,  when  he  pleads  with  Hubert  for  his  life. 
The  fire,  he  says,  is  dead  with  grief : 

There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal; 

The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out, 

And  strew'd  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

When  Hubert  offers  to  revive  it,  Arthur  continues  : 

And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it  blush, 
And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hubert ; 
Nay,  it  perchance  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes  ; 
And,  like  a  dog  that  is  compell'd  to  fight, 
Snatch  at  his  master  that  doth  tarre  him  on. 

In  Shakespeare's  mature  work  elaborated  figures  of 
this  kind  do  not  occur.  His  thought  presses  on  from 
metaphor  to  metaphor,  any  one  of  them  more  than  good 
enough  for  a  workaday  poet ;  he  strings  them  together, 
and  passes  them  rapidly  before  the  eye,  each  of  them 
bringing  its  glint  of  colour  and  suggestion.  His  so-called 
mixed  metaphors  are  not  mixed,  but  successive ;  the 
sense  of  mixture  is  produced  by  a  rapidity  of  thought 
in  the  writer  which  baffles  the  slower  reader,  and 
buries  him  under  the  missiles  that  he  fails  to  catch. 
There  are  often  two  or  three  metaphors  in  a  single 


vi.]  THE   LAST  PHASE  223 

sentence.  When  Iago  recommends  Eoderigo  to  wear 
a  false  beard,  he  does  it  in  these  words : 

Defeat  thy  favour  with  an  usurp'd  beard. 

When  Lady  Macbeth  reproaches  Macbeth  for  his  in- 
constant mind,  her  scorn  condenses  itself  in  what  seems 
to  be,  bnt  is  not,  a  mixture  of  metaphor : 

"Was  the  hope  drunk 
Wherein  you  drest  yourself  ? 

When  Antony's  friends  desert  him,  his  thoughts  run 
through  many  comparisons : 

All  come  to  this  ?     The  hearts 
That  pannelled  me  at  heels,  to  whom  I  gave 
Their  wishes,  do  discandy,  melt  their  sweets 
On  blossoming  Caesar  ;  and  this  pine  is  barkt 
That  overtopp'd  them  all.     Betray'd  I  am. 

If  they  had  understood  the  workings  of  Shake- 
speare's imagination,  his  later  editors  would  not  have 
attempted  to  amend  his  figures  by  reducing  them  to  a 
dull  symmetry.    When  Macbeth  says, 

My  way  of  life 
Is  fall'n  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf  : 

he  speaks  like  Shakespeare.  Those  who  read  "my 
May  of  life  "  make  him  speak  like  Pope.  An  even 
more  prosy  emendation  has  been  allowed,  in  many 
editions,  to  ruin  one  of  the  finest  of  Cleopatra's 
speeches : 

'T  is  paltry  to  be  Caesar  : 
Not  being  Fortune,  he  's  but  Fortune's  knave, 
A  minister  of  her  will :  and  it  is  great 
To  do  that  thing  that  ends  all  other  deeds, 
Which  shackles  accidents,  and  bolts  up  change  ; 
Which  sleeps,  and  never  palates  more  the  dung, 
The  beggar's  nurse,  and  Caesar's. 


224  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

The  substitution  of  "  dug  "  for  "  dung  "  robs  the  poet 
of  his  sudden  vision  of  the  whole  earth  nourishing  the 
race  of  man  on  its  own  corruption  and  decay,  and  robs 
him  without  compensation. 

Accustomed  as  he  is  to  deal  with  concrete  reality 
and  live  movement,  Shakespeare  seems  to  do  his  very 
thinking  in  metaphor.  He  is  generally  careful  to  make 
his  metaphors  appropriate  to  the  speaker  of  them; 
and  his  highest  reaches  of  imagination  are  often  seen 
in  a  single  figure.  What  a  wonderful  vitality  and 
beauty  the  word  "  ride  "  gives  to  his  description  of 
Beatrice : 

Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes. 

No  other  speech  gives  us  so  horrible  a  glimpse  into  the 
pit  of  Iago's  soul  as  his  own  speech  of  reassurance  to 
Roderigo,  with  its  summer  gardening  lore : 

Dost  not  go  well  ?    Cassio  hath  beaten  thee, 
And  thou  by  that  small  hurt  hast  cashier' d  Cassio  : 
Though  other  things  grow  fair  against  the  sun, 
Yet  fruits  that  blossom  first  will  first  be  ripe  : 
Content  thyself  awhile. 

The  vivid  pictorial  quality  of  Shakespeare's  imagi- 
nation causes  him  to  be  dissatisfied  with  all  forms  of 
expression  which  are  colourless  and  abstract.  He  makes 
sonorous  use  of  the  Latin  vocabulary  to  expound  and 
define  his  meaning  ;  and  then  he  adds  the  more  homely 
figurative  word  to  convert  all  the  rest  into  picture. 
His  words  are  often  paired  in  this  fashion  ;  one  gives 
the  thought,  the  other  adds  the  image.  So  he  speaks 
of  "the  catastrophe  and  heel  of  pastime";  the  "  snuff 
and  loathed  part  of  nature  "  ;  "  the  descent  and  dust 
below  thy  foot "  ;  "  the  force  and  road  of  casualty  "  ; 
"  a  puff'd  and  reckless  libertine  "  ;  "a  malignant  and 
a  turban'd  Turk."     It  is  this  sort  of  writing  that  was 


vi.]  THE  LAST   PHASE  225 

in  Gray's  mind  when  he  said,  "  Every  word  in  him  is 
a  picture." 

The  very  qualities  which  have  made  Shakespeare 
impossible  as  a  teacher  have  also  made  him  the  wonder 
of  the  world.  He  breaks  through  grammar  only  to 
get  nearer  to  the  heart  of  things.  The  human  mind  is 
without  doubt  a  very  complicated  mystery,  alive  in  all 
its  fibers,  incalculable  in  many  of  its  processes.  How 
should  it  express  itself  in  grammatical  sentences,  which 
are  a  creaking  contrivance,  made  up  of  two  parts,  a 
subject  and  a  predicate?  Yet  it  dares  the  attempt; 
and  Shakespeare  by  his  freedom,  and  spontaneity,  and 
resource,  has  succeeded,  perhaps  better  than  any  other 
writer,  in  giving  a  voice  and  a  body  to  those  elusive 
movements  of  thought  and  feeling  which  are  the  life  of 
humanity. 

These  questions  of  style  and  grammar  have  been 
allowed,  perhaps  too  easily,  to  intrude  upon  a  greater 
theme.  It  is  time  to  return  to  Shakespeare,  and  to 
make  an  end. 

The  Tempest  was  probably  his  last  play  —  in  this 
sense,  at  least,  that  he  designed  it  for  his  farewell  to 
the  stage.  The  thought  which  occurs  at  once  to  almost 
every  reader  of  the  play,  that  Prospero  resembles 
Shakespeare  himself,  can  hardly  have  been  absent 
from  the  mind  of  the  author.  By  his  most  potent 
art  he  had  bedimmed  the  noontide  sun,  called  forth 
the  mutinous  winds,  and  plucked  up  the  giant  trees 
of  the  forest.  Graves  at  his  command  had  waked 
their  sleepers,  oped,  and  let  them  forth.  When  at 
last  he  resolved  to  break  the  wand  of  his  incanta- 
tions and  to  bury  his  magic  book,  he  was  shaken, 
as  all  men  in  sight  of  the  end  are  shaken,  by  the 
passion  of  mortality.  But  there  was  no  bitterness  in 
the  leave-taking.     He   looked   into   the   future,   and 

Q 


226  SHAKESPEARE  [chap. 

there  was  given  to  him  a  last  vision ;  not  the  futile 
panorama  of  industrial  progress,  but  a  view  of  the 
whole  world,  shifting  like  a  dream,  and  melting  into 
vapour  like  a  cloud.  His  own  fate  and  the  fate  of  his 
book  were  as  nothing  against  that  wide  expanse. 
What  was  it  to  him  that  for  a  certain  term  of  years 
men  should  read  what  he  had  written  ?  The  old 
braggart  promises  of  the  days  of  his  vanity  could  not 
console  him  now. 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 

Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme. 

So  he  had  written  in  the  Sonnets.  When  the  end  drew 
near,  his  care  was  only  to  forgive  his  enemies,  and  to 
comfort  the  young,  who  are  awed  and  disquieted  by 
the  show  of  grief  in  their  elders.  Miranda  and  Fer- 
dinand watch  Prospero,  as  he  struggles  in  the  throes 
of  imagination.    Then  he  comes  to  himself  and  speaks: 

You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  mov'd  sort 
As  if  you  were  dismay'd.     Be  cheerful,  sir  ; 
Our  revels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air ; 
And  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind  :  we  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on  ;  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

In  all  the  work  of  Shakespeare  there  is  nothing  more 
like  himself  than  those  quiet  words  of  parting  —  "Be 
cheerful,  sir ;  our  revels  now  are  ended." 

Yet  they  are  not  ended ;  and  the  generations  who 
have  come  after  him,  and  have  read  his  book,  and  have 


vi.]  THE   LAST  PHASE  227 

loved  him  with  an  inalterable  personal  affection,  must 
each,  as  they  pass  the  way  that  he  went,  pay  him 
their  tribute  of  praise.  His  living  brood  have  sur- 
vived him,  to  be  the  companions  and  friends  of  men 
and  women  as  yet  unborn.  His  monument  is  still  a 
feasting  presence,  full  of  light.  When  he  was  alive  he 
may  sometimes  have  smiled  to  think  that  the  phantoms 
dancing  in  his  brain  were  as  real  to  him  as  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  the  outer  world.  The  population  of 
that  delicate  shadowland  seemed  to  have  but  a  frail 
hold  on  existence.  The  one  was  taken,  and  the 
other  left;  this  character  served  for  a  play,  that 
phrase  or  sentence  fitted  a  speech ;  the  others  died 
in  their  cradles,  or  lived  a  moment  upon  the  air,  and 
were  dissolved.  Those  that  found  acceptance  were 
made  over  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  players,  for  a 
week's  entertainment  of  the  populace.  But  now  three 
centuries  have  passed  since  King  Lear  was  written; 
and  we  begin  to  rub  our  eyes,  and  wonder.  "  Change 
places,  and,  handy-dandy,  which  is  the  ghost,  which 
is  the  man  ?  "  Is  the  real  man  to  be  sought  in  that 
fragmentary  story  of  Stratford  and  London,  which, 
do  what  we  will  to  revive  it,  has  long  ago  grown 
faint  as  the  memory  of  a  last  year's  carouse  ?  That 
short  and  troubled  time  of  his  passage,  during  which 
he  was  hurried  onward  at  an  ever-increasing  pace, 
blown  upon  by  hopes  and  fears,  cast  down  and  up- 
lifted, has  gone  like  a  dream,  and  has  taken  him 
bodily  along  with  it.  But  his  work  remains.  He 
wove  upon  the  roaring  loom  of  Time  the  garment 
that  we  see  him  by ;  and  the  earth  at  Stratford 
closed  over  the  broken  shuttle. 


INDEX 


Account  of  the  Life  &c.  of  Mr. 

William    Shakespear     (1709), 

Rowe,  43. 
All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  138-9, 

147 ;  basis  of,  164 ;  173-4,  219. 
Antony  and   Cleopatra,  72,  112, 

124-5,     144,    177,    194,    197-8; 

223. 
Apollonius  and  Silla  (Barnabe 

Riche),  68. 
Arcadia  (Sidney),  66. 
Arden,  Forest  of,  32. 
Arden,  Mary  (mother),  31 ;  deatb 

of,  59. 
Ariosto,  75. 
As  You  Like  It,  35 ;  basis  of,  66, 

75, 101,  102,  126, 129,  176, 177. 
Aubrey,  41,  44,  48,  58. 


B 

Bandello,  162-3. 

Beeston,  William,  44. 

Betterton,  43,  118. 

Boccaccio,  64,  162,  164. 

Books,  List  of ,  in  a  private  library 

of  period,  64. 
Boy  players,  120. 
Brandes,  Dr.,  36. 
Brooke,  Arthur,  4. 
Burbage,   Richard    (acted    chief 

tragic  parts  in  Shakespeare's 

plays),  57,  59,  118. 
Burghley,  Lord,  48-9. 


Canning,  a  story  of,  37. 

Canterbury  Tales  (Chaucer),  193. 

Chapman,  George,  185. 

Chronicles  (Raphael  Holinshed), 
47,  67,  68-9,  77,  181. 

Cinthio  (Giambattista  Giraldi), 
74,  162-4,  168. 

Coleridge,  4,  179, 198,  201. 

Comedies  (Shakespeare's) ,  criti- 
cisms on,  157-61,  164,  209. 

Comedy  of  Errors,  The,  38,  52, 
102,  142,  158. 

Condell,  Henry,  23,  59,  108,  131. 
See  Heminge. 

Coriolanus,  102,  192,  197. 

Critics,  Romantic,  4,  152;  char- 
acter studies  by,  153-6;  179, 
198,  225. 

Cymbeline,  47,  56,  67,  128,  140; 
Johnson's  criticism  on,  142; 
209. 

D 

Davenant,  Sir  William,  44. 

Declaration  of  egregious  Popish 
Impostures,  A  (1603),  66. 

Description  of  England  (Har- 
rison), 47-8. 

Devil  on  the  Highway  to  Heaven, 
The,  104. 

Dialogue  of  Dives,  TJie,  104. 

Dorastus  and  Fawnia  (Greene), 
66. 

Dowdall,  John,  44. 
229 


230 


SHAKESPEARE 


Dowden,  Prof.,  87, 166. 

Dr.  Faustus  (Marlowe),  106. 

Dryden,  21,  45,  69. 

E 

Edward  II.  (Marlowe),  106,  181. 
Elizabeth  (Queen),  55. 
Elizabethan  actors,  versatility  of, 

100. 
drama,  beginnings  of,  97; 

crisis  of,  103. 
Essays  of  Elia,  The  (Lamb),  74. 
Essex,  Earl  of,  56. 
Euphues  (Lyly),  66. 

F 

Fate,  159-62, 179,  226. 
Fechter,  the  actor,  in  Othello,  145. 
Fenton,  Geoffrey,  163. 
Fletcher,  John,  212. 
Fortune  theatre,  117. 

G 

Garrick,  David,  118, 146. 
Giraldi,      Giambattista.         See 

Cinthio. 
Globe  theatre  (Southwark),  54, 59, 

102,  115;  built  (1599),  117,  118. 
Goethe,  198. 
Oorboduc,  first  English  tragedy, 

103. 
Gray,  Thomas,  225. 
Greene,  Robert,  103-5,  107. 
Greenwich  Palace,  55. 
Groatsworth  of  Wit  (Greene),  104. 

H 

Hall  (chronicler),  41,  69. 

Hall,  John  (son-in-law),  59. 

Hall,  William,  86. 

Halliwell-Phillipps,  Mr.,  131. 

Hamlet,  7,  17,  27,  57,  85,  96,  101, 
112,  114,  123,  130, 134,  142,  147- 
48,  153-4,  159-60,  162,  169,  184, 
197, 198 ;  criticisms  on,  199,  211, 
218. 

Harman,  Thomas,  51. 


Hathaway,  Anne  (wife),  42. 
Hazlitt,  81,  164. 

Hecatommithi,  the  (Cinthio), 74. 
Heminge,  John,  23,  59,  108,  131. 

See  Condell. 
Henry  IV.,  47, 66, 139-40, 146, 151, 

181,  183;  Falstaff  in,  186-90. 
Henry  V.,  37;  dedication  of,  56; 

69,  186. 
Henry   VI.,  47;  parodied,  107-8; 

192. 
Henry  VIII,  56,  99. 
Historical  Plays. (Shakespeare's) , 

180;   dramatic  unity  of,   183; 

politics  in,  181 ;  213. 


HPecorone  (Ser  Giovanni  Fioren- 

tino) ,  74. 
Irony,  dramatic,  198,  203. 


James  i.,  55. 

Jameson,  Mrs.,  179. 

Jew  of  Malta,  The  (Marlowe)  ,106. 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  description 
of  Savage,  11-12 ;  appreciation 
by,  21 ;  22,  139,  196,  213. 

Jonson,  Ben,  2,  3,  20,  23,  53,  55. 

Julius  Caesar,  7,  47,  73,  121-2, 
128,  192. 

K 

Keats,  16. 

King  John,  41,  59,  125,  183,  222. 

King  Lear,  13,  19,  27,  53,  58,  66, 

67, 70,  77, 101,  115,  134-5,  172-3, 

195,  196,  211,  227. 
Kyd,  Thomas,  105. 


Lamb,  Charles,  74, 161. 

Lee,  Mr.  Sidney,  86. 

Lives  of  the  Noble  Grecians  and 

Romans,  The  (Plutarch),  70-4, 

181. 


INDEX 


231 


Lodge,  Thomas,  103-5. 

London,  City  of,  1,  42,  45,  48,  52, 
56. 

taverns  in,  7,  52-3. 

theatres,  100,  112;  descrip- 
tion of  stage,  118-19.  See  For- 
tune and  Globe. 

Love's  Labour 's  Lost,  38,  39,  56, 
95,  132,  220. 

Lucy,  Sir  Thomas,  42. 


M 

Macbeth,  4, 17,  24,  56,  58,  67,  69- 
70,  77,  102,  123,  125,  142,  145, 
159,  175,  185,  198,  216,  223. 

Machiavel,  64,  75, 163. 

Madden,  Mr.  Vice-Chancellor,  34. 

Manningham,  John  (Diary),  57. 

Marlowe,  65,  80,  84-5,  103,  106, 
112,  160-1,  173. 

Measure  for  Measure,  19,  53,  55 ; 
derivation  of  plot,  74 ;  128, 131, 
148-9,  157 ;  criticism  of,  164-5, 
194,  211,  218. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  57;  deriva- 
tion of,  74;  101,  126,  132,  134, 
150-1, 154, 157, 164, 169, 194,220. 

Meredith,  George,  21. 

Meres,  Francis,  86, 108. 

Merry  Wives,  The,  38 ;  origin  of, 
45;  56,  158;  Falstaff  in,  190-1. 

Midsummer  Night' 's  Dream,  32-4, 
48,  56,  95,  96-7,  156,  160,  171, 
181-2,  195. 

Milton,  2,  21. 

Miracle  Plays,  96. 

Montaigne,  75,  76. 

Montgomery,  Philip,  Earl  of,  56. 

Moral  of  Man's  Wit,  The,  104. 

Morality  Plays,  104. 

More,  Hannah,  70. 

Morris  dance,  The,  95. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  53, 75, 
126,  139, 157,  224. 


N 

New  English  Dictionary,  217. 
Nine  Worthies,  The  Pageant  of 
the,  95. 

O 

Of  Cannibals  (Montaigne),  76. 

Orator  (Silvayn),  66. 

Othello,  7,  13,  17,  58 ;  derivation 
of  plot,  74 ;  75,  102,  123-4,  129, 
135,  140-2,  145,  159,  162,  197, 
198,  203,  216,  219,  223,  224. 

Ovid,  38,  39,  80,  82. 


Palace  of  Pleasure  (Painter),  67. 

Pater,  Walter,  69. 

Peele,  103-5. 

Pembroke,  William,  Earl  of,  56. 

Pericles,  53. 

Plays  (Shakespeare's),  First 
Folio  edition  of,  2,  56,  59;  mis- 
leading division  of,  128;  212, 
218;  jesters  in,  100-2,  193; 
genesis  of,  108-17. 

Poetry  of  the  period,  79-80. 

Pope,  appreciation  by,  21, 22,  174. 

Promos  and  Cassandra  (George 
Whetstone),  75. 

Proverbs  in  Shakespeare's  plays, 
78. 

Q 

Quiney,  Thomas  (son-in-law),  59. 


R 


Rabelais,  75. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  40. 

Rape  of  Lucrece,  The,  80-3,  85. 

Renaissance  writers,  163. 

Rhetoric,  Art  of  (Thomas  Wil- 
son), 51. 

Richard  II.,  17,  41,  184-6. 

Richard  III.,  57,  183. 

"Romances"  (Shakespeare's), 
160,  211,  212. 


232 


SHAKESPEARE 


Romeo  and  Juliet,  4, 31,  34,68,  85, 
101-2,  116,  117,  123,  129,  131, 
184,  203. 

Rosalynde  (Thomas  Lodge),  66. 

S 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  Journal  of, 
182,  206. 

Secotul  Part  of  Connie-Catching, 
The,  49-50. 

Seneca,  English  tragedy  mod- 
elled on,  103. 

Serving-man's  Comfort,  The,  98. 

Shakespeare,  Hamnet  (only  son), 
42,  59. 

John  (father),  29-31. 

Judith  (daughter), 42,  43,  59, 


61. 


Richard  (grandfather),  29. 
Susanna  (daughter),  42,  43, 


59. 

William,  appearance,  1;   as 

man  and  writer,  2,  5-8,  10,  19; 
personal  character  13-16;  re- 
ligion, 18,  61-2, 173 ;  politics,  19, 
191-3 ;  epitaph,  20 ;  ancestry, 
29-31;  education,  32, 38-41, 193; 
ignorance  of  Natural  History, 
35-38;  youth,  42,  44;  marriage 
(1582),  42;  children,  42;  leaves 
Stratford  for  London  (1585), 
42-3;  early  years  in  London, 
45-6,  56-7;  knowledge  of  the 
town,  52-3 ;  of  the  people,  54-5 ; 
friends,  55-6;  beginning  of 
fame,  55;  before  royalty,  55; 
familiarity  with  court  life,  56; 
acquires  property  at  Stratford, 
58;  annual  visits  to,  58;  retires 
to,  59, 212 ;  death  and  burial,  59, 
114;  his  will,  59,  61;  reading, 
63;  favourite  books,  65;  Bib- 
lical knowledge,  74 ;  linguistic 
knowledge,  74-5;  first  noticed 
as  dramatist  (1592),  107;  at- 
tached to  king's  company  of 
players,  117. 


Dramatic  writings:  Folio 
edition  (1623),  2 ;  width  of  out- 
look in,  20,  132,  140, 164, 171-2, 
181 ;  contrasted  with  Homer, 
22;  craftsmanship  in,  23;  ma- 
terials and  methods,  26-8,  46, 
133-47,  156-7,  210;  poet  before 
dramatist,  63 ;  sources  of  sug- 
gestion, 66-78,  162;  compared 
with  Montaigne,  76 ;  touched  by 
spirit  of  Renaissance,  83-4 ;  cult 
of  beauty,  84 ;  influence  of  Mar- 
lowe on,  84-5 ;  early  efforts,  94 ; 
popular,  not  courtly,  106;  ac- 
cused of  plagiarism,  107;  style, 
24, 113, 215, 225 ;  rate  of  literary 
production,  114;  greatest  dra- 
matic period,  118;  stagecraft, 
120-5;  chief  artistic  offence, 
125;  unity  of  impression,  125; 
comedy  akin  to  tragedy,  130-3, 
in  contact  witb,  182;  creative 
genius,  148-51 ;  compared  with 
Chaucer,  193 ;  allusions  to  phi- 
losophy, 195-6 ;  last  phase,  209 ; 
collaborates  with  J.  Fletcher, 
212-13;  wealth  of  expression, 
216-24;  last  play,  225 ;  parting 
words,  226-7.  See  Critics  and 
Plays. 

Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  Never  be- 
fore Imprinted  (1609),  85-94. 

Southampton,  Earl  of,  55,  56. 

Spanish  Tragedy  (Kyd),  105. 

St.  George  (rustic  play),  95. 

Stopes,  Mrs.,  31. 

Stratford,  29-48,  58-9;  dramatic 
opportunities  of,  95,  96,  97. 

Suckling,  Sir  John,  2. 

Surrey,  Earl  of,  79. 


Tamburlaine  (Marlowe),  105. 
Taming  of  a  Shrew,  The,  110 ;  by 
whom  written,  111-12, 114. 


INDEX 


233 


Taming  of  the  Shrew,  The,  31,52, 

110,  156. 
Tarlton,  Richard,  99-100. 
Tempest,  The,  53,  56,  76,  209,  210, 

214-15,  225-6. 
Thorpe,  Thomas,  86,  87,  89. 
Timon  of  Athens,  73,  112-14, 115, 

191,  211. 
Titus  Andronicus,  84,  108,  125. 
Tragedies  (Shakespeare's),  criti- 
cism on,  193-208,  210-12. 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  24-5;  style 

of,  115-17;  129,  131,  171,201. 
Twelve    Labours    of  Hercules, 

The,  104. 
Twelfth  Night,  52, 56 ;  derivation 

of,  68 ;  100, 101,  123,  136-7,  159, 

160,  194. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  The, 

36,  136, 173,  221-2. 


Tico  Noble  Kinsmen,  The  (Fletch- 
er), 212-13. 

U 

University  Wits,  80, 103-4,  107. 

V 

Venus  and  Adonis,  35,  39;  suc- 
cess of,  55 ;  80-5. 

W 

Ward,  John,  22,  44,  58. 
Whetstone,  George,  148. 
Winter's  Tale,  The,  42;  basis  of 

plot,  66, 68,  129,  137-8, 140,  209, 

220,  221. 
Women  in  Shakespeare's  plays, 

31-2,  82,  135,  152-3,  155-6,  168- 

71,    173-80,    205-8;    none    on 

public  stage,  119. 
Wordsworth,  84. 


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